


Careful what you wish for

by Apuzzlingprince



Series: Witcher Fanfics [10]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Blindness, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Plot Centric, Slow Burn, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-20 16:18:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 24,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14264880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apuzzlingprince/pseuds/Apuzzlingprince
Summary: Geralt adjusted his grip on Roach’s reins, readying to resume a gallop. Assuming O’Dimm was being sincere, this conversation wouldn’t take long. “I don’t want to see you ever again, O’Dimm,” he said. “That is my request.”O’Dimm didn’t seem at all dismayed with Geralt’s request. In fact, his expression bordered on gleeful. “You don’t wish to see me, Geralt?”Geralt makes a mistake. O'Dimm takes advantage. Things only go downhill from there.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Things to note about this fic:
> 
> \- It's complete! But I'm posting one part of it first so I have some incentive to finish editing haha.
> 
> \- It’s primarily game based, so Emhyr’s history isn’t the same as it is in the books. He never sought to impregnate Ciri himself, but instead marry her off to someone else for the same purpose and take her child. Which is still horrendous, but... less so. The false Ciri storyline also never went anywhere. She went home in this verse instead of staying with Emhyr. That seems to be the case in the games anyway, but I wanted to add a note to avoid any confusion.

The first time Geralt saw Gaunter O'Dimm, he was seated atop a signpost bearing the names of nearby villages, his feet dangling over the letters pyrographed into the wood. He didn’t appear precariously perched despite the post having little room for his backside. In fact, he appeared quite comfortable. 

When Geralt came into view, O'Dimm greeted him with a broad smile. “Why Geralt!” he called. “What a pleasant surprise!”

Geralt didn’t share the sentiment. Gaunter O’Dimm wasn’t a man he’d hoped to see again. Despite his friendly and approachable manner, he wasn’t a being that inspired fondness.

“Thought I got rid of you,” he said, raising a hand to the pommel of his silver sword, though he knew it would do him little good should Gaunter O’Dimm decide to enact some kind of vengeance for the outcome of their last encounter. If O’Dimm could conjure up an entire world on whim and drop Geralt into it, his sword would be about as effective against him as a toothpick. Still, the cool metal radiating through the leather of his glove reassured him.

“Why so hostile, Geralt? I thought we parted on amicable terms!” O’Dimm spread his hands in a gesture of warm welcome. “Granted, I _am_ deeply unsatisfied with the outcome of our scrimmage.”

“So you should be,” said Geralt. “You lost.”

O’Dimm wrinkled his nose. “Yes. I give credit where credit is due – you _did_ defeat me – but I have since come to the conclusion that it was a fluke.”

Solving a riddle required thought and ingenuity; even more so in the case of O’Dimm’s riddle, which had been designed to deceive. It _couldn’t_ have been a fluke, and he would have told O’Dimm as much had O’Dimm not blinked out of sight when he opened his mouth.

Geralt turned in a full circle, finding his surroundings vacant. “Where the hell’d-!”

“Right here,” said O’Dimm, and within the blink of an eye O’Dimm was standing in front of him, a scant foots width separating them. The proximity made Geralt uneasy, but he maintained his position; he didn’t want to give O’Dimm the impression he could be intimidated. “I thought you might be more comfortable, speaking eye to eye,” continued O’Dimm, his jovial tone belied by the ice creeping into his stare.

“We don’t need to speak at all,” said Geralt. “I won, you lost. There’s no point in dwelling on it.”

O’Dimm’s smile broadened, revealing a slither of pearly white teeth. “Oh, but of course there is.  You won by chance, after all, and a victory gained in such a manner is no victory at all.”

Geralt snorted. “I didn’t win by chance. You’re just a sore loser, O’Dimm.” O’Dimm had shown himself willing to leave when unwanted, so Geralt demonstrated how very unwanted he was by shouldering past O’Dimm and examining the sign post. He needed to reach a village before sundown if he wanted to evade mobs of monsters.

“I think it would be only fair for you to permit a rematch!” called O’Dimm from behind him. “Should you win-!”

“Not interested.”

“I won’t even require that you stake your soul!”

Geralt didn’t so much as glance over his shoulder. “Not. Interested.”

He picked the closest village and started walking. To his great relief, O’Dimm didn’t appear to be following him.

* * *

The second time he saw O’Dimm, the man was languishing in mid-air while he cut down a hoard of drowners.

“I’ll permit you three wishes, should you win,” was what he greeted Geralt with.

Geralt would have liked to tell O’Dimm to fuck off, but he couldn’t spare the breath. He shouldered a drowner into the muddy earth and swung his sword in a tight semi-circle, slashing another drowner across its stomach, its guts spilling out in a bloody mess.

O’Dimm wasn’t deterred by his silence. “I can ensure you’re never wanting for food, water, or wealth,” he said. “I can strip you of the capacity to feel pain. I can make you immortal. I can make you a king. Those are but a few of the things I can do for you, Geralt.”

He managed to cast O’Dimm a glare between slicing the heads off the remaining five drowners. They were falling one after the other, failing to land a single hit. The drowners of Velen were among the easiest of beasts to deal with, even in great numbers.

“Oh, but you’re the _selfless_ type, aren’t you?” continued O’Dimm, much to Geralt’s frustration. “You wouldn’t ask for such _trivialities_.”

With only two drowners left, Geralt was finally able to speak. “Already told you I wasn’t interested,” he ground out.

“You ought to be. I mean, how old is that bard friend of yours now? Forty-five? And the dwarf? Shani and Ciri are still young, but you will vastly outlive them nonetheless, assuming you don’t get yourself killed before their inevitable passing. It’s always a terrible thing when a child dies before their parent.”

With his sword buried in the skill of the final drowner, he turned to snarl at O’Dimm.

“Leave me be.”

“You’ll lose them all, one day,” O’Dimm persisted. “But you don’t have to. I can keep them alive for as long as you need them.”

Geralt dispatched the final drowner and left with his hands white-knuckled and shaking.

* * *

“Or perhaps,” said O’Dimm as he seated himself beside Geralt, as though a full evening hadn’t passed since their last conversation. “You would prefer to bring those _already_ lost back.”

Geralt set the pint of Rivian kriek he’d been nursing back on the bar with a heavy thud. He was beginning to understand why Olgierd had described O’Dimm as persistent. “I refuse. I will always refuse. Your efforts are _pointless_.”

“I beg to differ!” said O’Dimm, irritatingly chipper. “There must be _something_ you want.”

Geralt placed a handful of coins on the counter in preparation to leave. He had intended to buy a hot meal before returning to the road, but he would forgo that in favour of avoiding another of O’Dimm’s offers.

“Now, as I was saying. You may prefer-“

He was out the door before O’Dimm could finish, making a beeline for Roach, who had wandered over to a nearby feeding troth.

“-To bring back those you lost in your earlier ventures.”

Geralt looked up at O’Dimm, who now stood at his side wearing a genial smile. It took every bit of self-control Geralt had not to punch him in the face. If he tried, he knew he would end up flailing into empty air.

“I don’t want your wishes,” he said, grasping Roach by the reins and guiding her into the street. She stamped her hooves and flared her nostrils, apparently displeased with Geralt’s decision to deprive her of food prematurely.

“Wouldn’t you like to see Milva?” O’Dimm persisted. “Cahir?”

Geralt hoisted himself into the saddle and prompted Roach into a gallop, careful to avoid any wandering pedestrians. Fortunately, the villages in Velen were small and there were few enough residents that a gallop was feasible. He didn’t get far, however, before Gaunter’s voice returned.

“You always liked Angoulême, didn’t you? She reminded you of Ciri. Didn’t live long under your guidance, so really, you owe her this.”

O’Dimm had started speaking in his head. Some kind of telepathy. Running would do him no good.

“How about this, Geralt: as a show of good will, I’ll extend you one small request.”

Geralt growled under his breath. “I’m not interested.”

“Oh, come on, Geralt! I’m offering you anything you want, free of charge! No fine print whatsoever! I just want you to get a taste of what you’ll be missing before you try to say no to me again.”

“ _Fine_.” Grinding his molars, Geralt brought Roach to a stop so suddenly that she kicked up dirt and stones. He ignored to indignant whinny she made. “I have a request, O’Dimm.”

“Splendid!” O’Dimm blinked into being less than a foot beside him, and Geralt was so used to O’Dimm’s abrupt appearances by now that it didn’t surprise him at all. The man steepled his fingers. “What’s your request? And try to leave the _big_ wishes until after our game. This is just an entree.”

Geralt adjusted his grip on Roach’s reins, readying to resume a gallop. Assuming O’Dimm was being sincere, this conversation wouldn’t take long. “I don’t want to see you ever again, O’Dimm,” he said. “ _That_ is my request.”

O’Dimm didn’t seem at all dismayed with Geralt’s request. In fact, his expression bordered on gleeful. “You don’t wish to see me, Geralt?”

“That’s what I sa-“ Geralt cut himself off with a sharp inhale; he understood, now, why O’Dimm was still smiling.

O’Dimm clapped his hands, and within an instant his world had dissolved into nothing. An endless, all-encompassing nothing that tore the breath out of his lungs as panic rose in a colossal, choking wave.

He’d never been without his sight before, courtesy of cat potions and the witchers trademark eyes, and it was a novel sort of _helpless_. His hands involuntarily tightened around his reins.

“O’Dimm?”

“Still here,” said O’Dimm jovially. He hadn’t moved.

“Give my sight back.”

“Oh, but I fulfilled a request for you already! You’ll have to ask me later.”

“Give my sight back,” he said again, as calmly as possible. “Or you can forget about me ever playing your game. Can’t do shit while blind.”

Silence.

“O’Dimm?”

Geralt lifted the foot closest to O’Dimm out of its stirrup to feel the air and found it empty. He was alone. Alone, blind, and in the heart of Velen. It was hard to imagine a worse place to be left this vulnerable. If he’d been in Toussaint, or even Novigrad, he could have relied upon the locals for help; here, however, he was more likely to be beaten and robbed if he let on that he was impaired. Of course, even without his sight, he would be a formidable opponent to any that tried to take advantage.

He took a deep breath to ease his anxiety. There was no point in panicking. It would only serve to muddle up his sense of location more than it already was.

His best chance of surviving this ordeal was to return to Lindenvale and speak to the hunter that had given him the Chort contract some years prior. They had seemed a decent enough fellow. Perhaps, with the promise of coin, Geralt could convince them to guide him to Novigrad, where he would be able to solicit additional help from Dandelion and Zoltan. 

It was a sound plan. Now he just had to figure out which way to ride.

During summer (or what passed for summer in Velen), the sun set in the northwest. He could feel its warmth bearing down on the left side of his face, bringing perspiration to the surface of his skin. He must have been facing south, then. Approximately, in any case, but an approximate was better than having no idea at all.

He carefully turned Roach until she was facing the correct direction. He would ride until he hit the river, then follow it up to his destination. As long as he didn’t end up passing Lindenvale riding through Lurtch, he ought to get there before dark. Not that the absence of light would make much difference, at this period, but he much preferred riding during the day, where there was more of a chance of encountering locals rather than monsters.

He struck Roach in the sides and set off at a trot.

* * *

With trouble being an enduring companion of Geralt’s, it should have come as no surprise to him that his journey to Lindenvale wasn’t without its obstacles. Granted, it wasn’t so much the obstacles themselves that surprised him, as the fact they managed to function as obstacles despite how poorly suited to the role they were. Being attacked by bandits was nothing new, after all, but being attacked by bandits and having them knock him off Roach and land several serious hits was quite a novel experience for him. Untrained bandits wielding nothing but rusted swords had him swallowing down Tawny Owl's in an effort to compensate for his disadvantage.

He did eventually manage to dispatch all of them. There had been four, in total, and his liberal use of igni and quen was the only reason he'd evaded being impaled on the end of one of their swords. By the time the they had taken their last breaths, Geralt was sweaty, bruised, and bleeding, and practically swooning from exhaustion, and it took ten minutes of whistling for Roach to return to him with rejuvenating food and water and medical supplies. He sat and dressed his wounds, then ate through two grilled chicken sandwiches and polished off the contents of a water skin.

The air swiftly turned frigid. Night was falling and Geralt had lost his sense of direction again. With no sun to guide him, he was stuck there.

He tied Roach to a nearby tree and felt his way around the bandit camp until he found a pile of wood, which he threw onto the bandit’s little fire. He made himself comfortable before it, feet tucked up under his thighs, and relished in the heat. The nights in Velen could get very cold, even during summer, and Geralt had no intention of braving it without some source of warmth.

The sounds of the surrounding wilderness made it difficult to fall into a meditative state. He couldn’t help but listen for the crunch of sticks underfoot or the howl of a wolf or the splash of a drowner. Being blind had put him on high alert, understandably. But he did eventually manage to relax enough to meditate, and he was lucky enough to reach morning without being disturbed. The bandits must have chosen a relatively safe place to make camp.

He snapped out of his trance with morning dew clinging to his skin and armour. His extremities were cold and stiff and ached faintly while he went about his usual morning preparations: eating breakfast, feeding Roach, and redressing his wounds, which had turned dry and tender overnight. None of his injuries were serious enough to require sutures, though they were ugly, jagged wounds courtesy of the bandits’ shit weapons.

When he was finished with his wounds, he burned the sullied bandages and cleaned as much blood off himself and his armour as possible. If there were any ghouls nearby, sniffing around for a scent, he wanted to be able to avoid them. One fight while blind had been more than enough.

He hopped onto Roach, re-orientated himself by getting a feel for the location of the sun, and resumed his journey to Lindenvale. Some wolves nipped at his heels as he followed the river down, but that was the sole obstacle he faced on his journey. He arrived at Lindenvale no worse for wear, though he arrived in a rather bombastic fashion by slamming Roach into a fence and inadvertently throwing himself onto her neck.

Clambering out of the saddle, Geralt muttered a few apologies to the frazzled horse and tied her to what fencing remained standing. He hoped there was a feeding troth nearby, seeing as he had no idea where exactly he had tied her.

He stood there a few minutes, waiting, until he heard footsteps approaching.

“Hey, you!” someone bellowed. “Watch where you’re going! You destroyed my ploughing fence!”

He regarded the man dryly. Or tried to, in any case; he couldn’t tell exactly where he should be facing through hearing alone. “I need to see the hunter here.”

“Excuse me, what?” The man spluttered. “Ain’t you gonna apologise? That’s my fucking property, and you ruined it.”

“I’m sorry,” said Geralt, though he didn’t sound very sorry. He wasn’t very good at affecting an apologetic tone. “Where’s the hunter?”

“You don’t sound sorry at- whao.” The man came to an abrupt stop. “What’s with your eyes?”

“I’m a witcher,” said Geralt dismissively.

“No, I mean- they’re all cloudy, like...” The man paused. “You’re just supposed to have cat eyes, right?”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Geralt, taking a tentative step forward, in the man’s approximate direction. “I need to know where the hunter is. Take me to him.”

The man started to close the space between them in long steps. “Well, I’ll be damned. You’re blind. A blind witcher! Can you still kill monsters like that?”

Geralt frowned, growing annoyed. “Are you going to answer my question anytime soon, or should I find someone else?”

“Why should I do anything for you? You broke my fence!”

Geralt made a vague gesture at his face. “Can you blame me?”

“Yeah, I fucking can.”

“Fine,” he said, exasperated, and turned to abandon the conversation. There had to be someone else, perhaps a woman or a child, that could point him in the right direction.

The man wasn’t willing to concede, apparently, as he continued speaking. “Look, give me a few coins to repair it and I’ll help you out. If you go stumbling around the village, someone’ll figure out what’s going on and take advantage.”

“Kind of like you are,” said Geralt dryly, but he reached for his coin pouch nonetheless. He could spare a few crowns if it meant getting out of this town faster. “How many?”

“Twenty,” said the man eagerly.

Geralt carefully counted out twenty crowns and handed them to the man. Under different circumstances, it would have been more than he was willing to pay for the reparation of a fence, but he was in no position to haggle. He had more than enough coin back home, anyway. Barnabas-Basil had recently started producing wine and with Geralt’s enhanced sense of smell, he was able to pick the best of the grapes, yeast, and additives to taste. On his second batch he added something like peach and nuts, for personal taste, and ended up selling so many barrels of his product that he had barely a bottle left for himself. It might’ve been that people genuinely enjoyed Geralt’s concoctions or it might have a been fanciful whim based on the fact he was witcher selling wine; either way, he was _rolling_ in coin. With no idea what he should spend such immense coin on, Geralt had given a large portion of it to Basil and told him to spend it wherever he saw fit. The rest, he used for basic necessities and splurging on friends.

He returned the coin pouch to his belt and folded his arms, waiting for his answer. The man counted each coin before he finally obliged Geralt’s request.

“The hunter isn’t here anymore. He found a misses and moved to Novigrad.”

Geralt sighed heavily. “That’s useless to me. Should’ve just told me outright.”

“You might not’ve given me my coin if I did that.”

Geralt had to bite back the urge to call him a _rat_. It wouldn’t do him any good to get angry. “Fine. Is…” He wracked his mind for a name. “The Fisherman here?” Last he’d seen the local fisherman, he’d given them a handful of coins with which to feed his family. Hopefully there would be lingering gratitude, because he was running out of options for an escort.

“Oh, you mean Stan?”

Geralt nodded.

“Aye, he’s still here,” said the man, pockets jingling with Geralt’s coin as he strode over to his fallen fence. Geralt heard him picking up the wood. “You’ll find him at the dock. Try not to go running into the water like you did my fence.”

“I won’t if you take me there.”

“Fuck off. I’ve got to spend my morning fixing this fence now, thanks to you.”

To that, Geralt pursed his lips and said nothing, turning to feel his way back to Roach. He ensured she was still securely tied before carefully walking toward the sound of children splashing in water. Unfortunately, even with his enhanced hearing, he managed to trip over a fallen barrel on his way there and slam his face into the dirt. He was still picking it out of his teeth when he arrived at the water and called for Stan.

Stan did not respond, and after ten minutes of wandering back and forth across the edge of the lake, Geralt gathered that he wasn’t going to receive a reply. If he ever found that Fence man again, he would beat him into the ground and take his coins back. He’d been utterly useless.

He heard a loud, panicked whinny on his way back to Roach and cursed under his breath, reaching for his steel blade. He very nearly tripped over the same barrel again before re-entering the street with his sword drawn. He heard a couple of screams and a panicked squeal from whoever was harassing his horse and surged forward, ready to strike should they fail to explain themselves. 

“Quick, pull it off- he’s coming!”

“He’s ploughing blind. We’ll be fine.”

“He has his sword drawn!”

He was _definitely_ going to beat the Fence man now, who had undoubtedly gone around blabbing about his predicament. Under normal circumstances, _no one_ would steal from a witcher. It was signing your own death warrant.

The men made their escape before he could reach Roach, and being _fucking blind_ , he wasn’t able to pursue them. He found Roach without her saddle and saddle bags, and consequently all the supplies he’d kept in them. His food, water, and additional coin. He had enough coin to buy new supplies, but not enough to replace the saddle and bags.

Geralt sheathed his sword and untied Roach from the fence. He would have to take her with him wherever he went, now, least he lose _her_ to theft too. He spent some time trying to locate the Fence man, and failing that, he went instead to the tavern and tied Roach as close to the door as was possible without blocking the entrance. She didn’t seem pleased about being forced to stay in such an enclosed space, but didn’t complain beyond a snort.

The tavern owner greeted him with a bellowing, “Welcome, welcome!” as he stepped inside, making it easy to cross over to him. Well… easier than it would have been, in any case; he still managed to catch his hip on a table.

The first thing he did was drop a large handful of coins onto the counter. “I need food, water, and a guide to Novigrad.”

“Oh,” said the innkeeper, rendered breathless at the sight of so much coin. “Any food in particular you need?”

“Anything filling,” said Geralt. “And the guide?”

“I’ll arrange it in just a moment, Master Witcher!” The man scrambled to fulfil his request for food and drink, sorting through his stock loud enough for Geralt to be reassured he wasn’t about to be robbed a second time. He provided Geralt with a leather skin pouch to carry his goods in, free of charge, and directed Geralt to sit at a nearby table while he sought someone capable of being an escort.

When he returned, he didn’t have good news. “I’m afraid there’s no one really suitable to be an escort. It’s mostly families and workers here, and the journey to Novigrad is a perilous one.”

“That still the case even if I pay well?”

“’Fraid so, sir,” said the innkeeper. “But I can rent you a room while you await someone appropriate.”

“How do I know this isn’t a scam?” asked Geralt, his tone cool and dangerous.

“W-what do you mean?”

“You might just be telling me there’s no one so I’ll pay you for a room.”

The innkeeper huffed. “If you feel that way, you don’t have to stay here. Go sleep out in the wilderness. You’ve no doubt done it hundreds of times before.”

He listened carefully to the innkeeper’s heart and found it beating a steady rhythm. “Do you have somewhere I can tie my horse?”

“So, you’re staying?”

“Depends on what my chances are that someone who’ll be able to help me will come through here,” answered Geralt. “I’m charitably assuming you wouldn’t offer unless you thought I would receive help, eventually.”

“You’re right to think as much,” said the innkeeper. “A witcher came through here a few days back and got some work dealing with a spirit thingy. They should return soon for their pay.”

“Mm. Spirit thingies. Those always require some time,” said Geralt, faintly amused. “Now, my horse. Where can I tie her?”

“You can keep her out back. I have a troth there.”

“Any other horses?”

“Just two cows.”

Not ideal, but it was better than Roach standing there alone and vulnerable. If she put up a fuss, the cows would no doubt react and alert them to any ill doings.

“It’ll do.” Geralt stood out of his seat, reaching for his coin pouch yet again. It was getting lighter and lighter. “Two nights. How much?”

“Forty crowns.”

“Any chance I can ask a lower price?”

The man hesitated. “Since you have been generous thus far, thirty-five. But that’s the best I can do.”

Geralt sighed and forked over the requested amount. He had a little under three hundred left. That would, at the very least, enable him to pay whoever this witcher was for their services, but he would have to ration his food and water to make sure it didn’t run out before he could shelter in the Chameleon. Fortunately, he’d done this so often while on the path that it wouldn’t be difficult to readjust to going without three straight meals.

He had the innkeeper guide him to where his room was and deposited his things, then stepped outside to take Roach around back. It took him almost fifteen minutes to achieve this task, and it wasn’t without its perils, as he returned to the tavern with cow shit clinging to his boots.

* * *

The first night and day passed without incident. Geralt spent most of it sitting in his rented room and contriving plans to recover his sight. He would try a magical solution before he tried O’Dimm. If he could get around the bastard’s trickery with some sorcery, he would do so; he was sure Phillipa would be able to think of something after having spent so much time researching magically recovered sight. (It said a lot that he would sooner go to Eilhart than indulge O’Dimm in his games.)

When the second night rolled around, the witcher the innkeeper had spoken of returned to the village. Geralt knew this because said witcher threw open the door to Geralt's room and announced his presence by shouting ‘who the hell’s looking for me?’, presumably in an attempt to intimidate him.

Geralt sat up in bed.

“Oh,” said the other witcher, noticeably calmer. “It’s you.”

“We’ve met?”

“Yeah.” The door creaked shut. “Would know of you even if we hadn’t, though. Your reputation precedes you and all that.”

“Remind me – who are you?”

“Gaetan. Cat school.”

“Ah. Right.” The guy who’d massacred an entire village. A greedy village, perhaps, but a village nonetheless, and while Geralt hadn’t been able to bring himself to kill the man at the time, he wasn’t exactly happy to see (or hear, rather) him.

“I’ve been doing better, since then,” said Gaetan, coming to stand at the end of his bed. “Doesn’t look like you are, though. What happened to your eyes?”

“Temporary issue,” said Geralt tersely. He perched himself on the edge of the mattress and pulled on his armour. “But I need a hand, in the meantime.”

“And you’re willing to accept help from a bastard like me? Must be desperate.”

“Something like that,” said Geralt. “You gonna help me or not?”

“’Course I will. You didn’t stick a sword in my ass while I was down, so I figure that means I owe you one.” He heard the floorboards creak under Gaetan’s feet and wondered if he was still wearing those garish red boots. “So, what’ya need, brother?”

“A guide to Novigrad. Got the coin for it.”

“Could use some more coin,” said Gaetan. “If you can spare fifty, that’ll do.”

Geralt arched an eyebrow. “Little low. You in a charitable mood?”

Gaetan snorted. “ _Obviously_ , or I wouldn’t fucking agree to escort you anywhere, least of all Novigrad. It’s not exactly safe for me there.”

Geralt faintly recalled the letter he’d found with Gaetan’s stash – the man had a bounty on his head. For how much, if it had been in the letter, he couldn’t recall. He would have to find his own way to the Chameleon from the gate, then.

He stood, securing the straps on his gauntlets and boots with some difficulty. Getting dressed while blind was proving to be something of a challenge.

Gaetan laughed. “Need a hand there, buddy?” he asked, but didn’t move to assist Geralt. Something Geralt was grateful for, as it was humiliating enough to be bumping into shit all the time without needing help with something as trivial as getting dressed.

“No.” He slung his swords over his back and took a tentative step toward where he hoped Gaetan was standing. “You ready to go?”

“Gonna grab some food and drink, then we can head out. You want a beer before we leave?”

“Alright.”

“I’d ask for a game of gwent, too, but…”

“Some other time,” said Geralt, unamused.

They found a quiet corner in the inn and chatted idly over bowls of mutton stew and chilled pints of Cintrian Faro. They split the bill once they were done and Geralt directed Gaetan to the fenced off area out back, where Roach was currently grazing. He managed to remember the approximate location of the gate this time and entered with relative ease, retrieving Roach from a nearby patch of grass and guiding her out of the pen. Gaetan had the decency not to laugh when he stepped in cow shit _again_.

“Your horse doesn’t have a saddle,” said Gaetan, and Geralt shrugged.

“Got stolen.”

“Wow. Who steals from a blind guy?”

“The people of Velen, evidently.” He gave Roach’s flank a heavy pat. “Doesn’t sound like you have a horse, anyway, so we wouldn’t have been riding anywhere.”

“What, you don’t want to share a saddle with me?”

“Not particularly,” he said, and continued on past the pen and back out into the main street of Lindenvale, dragging his fingertips along the side of the inn to ensure he didn’t pass his target. He could hear Gaetan’s crunching footsteps behind him.

“It’d be quicker.”

Geralt sighed. “If you want to buy a saddle for her so we can ride, be my guest. Otherwise, we’re walking.”

“Fine, I’ll buy a saddle,” said Gaetan. “I’ll just add its cost to your bill.”

Geralt’s brow pinched. “Better be a goddamn cheap saddle, then.”

Gaetan chuckled, coming up to walk at his side. “I’ll select the cheapest one available just for you, pal.” A hand slapped down over his shoulder, prompting a jump. Geralt brushed it off. “Besides,” continued Gaetan, undeterred by his discomfort. “We’re going to need a horse to get past all the fucking bandits. They’ve been congregating here ever since Nilfgaard won the war.”

“There’s nothing here for them.”

“There’s nothing anywhere else for them, either. Nilfgaard embassies are being built all over the north and crime’s being dealt with.”

“Almost sounds admirable,” said Geralt, but with audible distaste. There was nothing that could have persuaded him to sacrifice Roche, Ves, and Thaler so Dijkstra could run his dictatorship, particularly after Roche and Ves had saved his life and supported him at Kaer Morhen, but the consequences were still embittering.

“Yeah,” said Gaetan, snorting. “ _Almost_. Now hand me the reins. I’ll get your horse fitted for a saddle.”

With some hesitation, Geralt relinquished the reins. “Careful with her. She doesn’t like strangers.”

“I’ll come back and drag you along if things go to shit.”

“Great,” said Geralt, positioning himself against the wall of the inn, arms folded. “I’ll be here.”

“’Course you will be. You’re fucking blind.”

“Hasn’t impeded my ability to walk.”

“You say that, but you stepped in cow shit a moment ago.” Gaetan’s voice started to recede. As did Roach’s snorts and the swish of her tail.

While awaiting his return, Geralt double-checked that his food and coin pouches were properly secured to his belt. He tightened the hemp rope twisted around them that little bit more just to be on the safe side. If he lost either pouch, he couldn’t be sure Gaetan’s generosity would be able to endure.

“Got the saddle,” announced Gaetan upon returning.

Geralt reached out to get a feel of Gaetan’s purchase, sliding his hands along the worn leather and gripping at the cantle. It was a cheap one, that was for certain, and it probably wouldn’t last for more than a journey or two. That suited Geralt just fine. He had better saddles stashed away in the Chameleon, having been too lazy to retrieve them and either sell them off or re-purpose them. They were sitting in Dandelion’s attic, currently.

Gaetan hoisted himself into the saddle and Geralt followed suit, seating himself behind Gaetan. As they were both reasonably large men, it wasn’t the most comfortable of positions, but it was still better than walking. There would be less interruptions, this way. They would be at their destination within a few days.

Geralt awkwardly held onto either side of the saddle, since he didn’t particularly want to put his arms around Gaetan’s waist. Generally, he rode at the front. He didn’t know what to do with himself now that he was at the back.

Fortunately, Gaetan seemed to be in a talkative mood, and that distracted him from his awkward position for a short period.

“How’d you end up blind, anyway?” he asked, glancing back at Geralt while guiding Roach into a gallop beside the river. “Pissed off whatever sorceress you’re sleeping with now or something? I hear from the ballads you have a thing for them.”

Geralt would savour the day Dandelion finally got bored of making up songs about him and his escapades (particularly his _sexual_ ones; no one needed to know about those). He already had around five or six featuring him, as well as several plays, and he certainly didn’t need _more_.

“Pissed off something, but it wasn’t a sorceress.” If it had been, his predicament would have been considerably easier to deal with.

“What, then?”

“Don’t really know, unfortunately,” said Geralt. “Don’t really want to find out, either. Just want my eyesight back and to go on ignoring their existence.”

“Doesn’t seem like the whole ‘ignoring’ thing is working out for you,” said Gaetan. “Maybe you should try killing it. It is what we do.”

“If I thought it could be killed, I would have done that already.”

“Well, I’m out of ideas.”

“You had exactly one idea.”

“Yeah, and it was still better than anything you came up with before I proposed it.”

“Got me there,” Geralt conceded dryly. “’Kill it’ – never would have come up with that by myself.”

“I know. I’m a regular genius.”

Their conversation was giving Geralt the impression that Gaetan and Lambert would have gotten along swimmingly. Too bad they weren’t likely to ever meet – Lambert had long since left the North at Kiera’s behest and he wasn’t to return anytime soon.

“We’ll stop at Crows Perch for a bit,” said Gaetan, quite out of the blue. “I want to sell a few heads there.”

“Alright,” agreed Geralt. "It'll be safe there." They would be welcomed warmly. The Baron had since returned with his wife and Sergeant Ardal had been evicted as a result of his behaviour towards the peasants. Even if anyone knew of the price on Gaetan’s head, it would be overlooked so long as he was with Geralt.

It had started to rain by the time they arrived. Geralt directed Gaetan to the stables and had him guide Roach into one of the stalls. He then, much to Geralt’s chagrin, had to solicit Gaetan’s help in reaching the Baron’s quarters, as he didn’t particularly want to go stumbling around the courtyard in search of the stairs.

“You okay from here?” asked Gaetan once they were at the door.

“Yeah.” Geralt slid a hand along the surface of the door until he located the handle. “There’s a bedroom at the far end of the hall. We can meet back there when you’ve finished selling your heads.”

“You gonna reach that okay?”

“Can’t imagine how I wouldn’t.”

“I can,” said Geatan, already retreating. “But I’ll leave you to it.”

Pushing the door open, Geralt entered the Baron’s office and waited for a greeting – which he promptly received, though it wasn’t from who he had been expecting.

“Oh, Witcher. Hello. What’re you doing here?” said Tamara.

“Wanted a word with your father,” said Geralt. He let the door swing shut behind him, taking a tentative step into the room. “Didn’t expect to find you here.”

“I’m only here for my mother,” said Tamara dismissively. It didn’t seem time had made her any more forgiving of her father’s actions.

“How is she?” he asked. Last he’d heard, she’d been experiencing moments of lucidity.

“Better,” said Tamara. A desk chair squealed across the floorboards and Geralt heard her soft footfall as she approached. “Not entirely back to normal, but… better. She’ll be well enough to move in with me, eventually.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Her footsteps came to a stuttering stop. A brief, awkward silence descended. “Uh, not to be brazen,” she said, at last. “But your…uh…“

“My eyes.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m blind,” he explained. “ _Temporarily_.”

“Did you have a tiff with a sorceress?”

Geralt sighed. If only. “No.”

“Guess you’ll want me to fetch my father for you, then. He’s in the garden.”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

“I was about to leave, anyway. I’ll let him know you’re here on my way out.”

“Thank you, Tamara.”

“You’re welcome.” Before leaving the room, she added, “The fire’s going, if you want to warm up. You’re soaked.”

“Thank you,” he said again, taking measured steps towards the fireplace and leaving puddles of water in his wake. With how toasty the room was, they wouldn’t take long to dry. 

The door clicked shut as he dropped to his hunches before the fireplace, carefully stripping off the outer layer of his armour to better warm himself. While waiting, he ate one of the strips of fatback he’d purchased and washed it down with a flask of apple juice. He hadn’t had the opportunity to eat on the journey. He hadn’t wanted to risk opening his pack while they were galloping, least he lose all that he had purchased.

He heard the Baron’s bellowing voice long before the Baron arrived at his office. “Ploughing miserable out there and still she insists on sitting among the flowers! Can’t tell if she’s ill or just eccentric these days.” His men mumbled indistinctly in response. “Yeah, yeah. Get some warm soup in her and bring some flower pots inside if she still wants to sit with them.”

The Baron plodded the rest of the way down the hallway and entered his office. Geralt raised his head to acknowledge him.

“Geralt!” exclaimed Phillip. “What brings you to miserable ‘ol Velen? Thought you were living it up in Toussaint.”

Geralt gestured vaguely at his eyes. “Got a problem in need of addressing.”

“Aye, I heard, but if I was going to be blind anywhere, it wouldn’t be here. And during the wet days of summer, no less.”

“Didn’t have much of a choice in the matter.”

The Baron strode to his desk. Geralt turned when he heard him pouring something into two glasses.

“Cherry cordial,” the Baron announced, crossing the room and handing Geralt a goblet. “Distilled, of course. Ought to warm you some.”

Returning his flask and what remained of his fatback to his pouch, Geralt took a sip of the spirit. It did indeed warm him, burning its way down his throat and into his belly. It was lovely and sweet despite its strength. While cherry cordial wasn’t in great supply, and often had to be used as a potion base, Geralt savoured it when he managed to get his hands on it for consumption purposes.

“Now,” said the Baron, hunching down beside him. “Are you here for my help? Because, I have to tell you, my men are pretty bloody useless and I ain’t much better when it comes to magic and curses and such.”

Geralt gave a curt shake of his head. “Only need temporary respite. I have a companion here with me – another witcher.”

“One of my men mentioned. He has a price on his head.” A pause. “No one’s going to try collecting, though. Even if they had the balls to go up against a witcher, I’ve disallowed it.”

“How much is the bounty?” he asked.

“Gone up since the Nilfgaardian embassy took over the big ones as a show of good will.”

“How much?”

“Two thousand crowns.”

“Well, shit.” That was more than Geralt had thought it would be. It was a wonder Gaetan hadn’t fled the north. Granted, without access to Novigrad’s ships and with checkpoints at every crossing, there wasn’t far he could go.

“Pretty good, actually,” said Phillip. “For us, at least. I can actually rely on my orders to Novigrad and Oxenfurt to actually fuckin’ get here now that most of the better organised bandits have been taken out. They’ve been trying to clear out the swamp, too, and doing a decent job of it now that they have a couple of thousand men settled here.”

It occurred to Geralt, then, that he couldn’t ask Gaetan to make the journey to Novigrad. To take him past Velen’s border, particularly while Nilfgaard was making itself comfortable on the other side of the river, would put Gaetan in great danger. Witcher or not, the NIlfgaardian’s were ruthless, and with enough of them, anyone, or any _thing_ could be taken down. Geralt didn’t particularly want to become a target for being seen in Gaetan’s company, either. After having ‘failed’ to recover Ciri for Emhyr, he didn’t expect he was in the Nilfgaardian’s good books.

“Think I’ll need your help after all,” said Geralt. “If you can spare it.”

“I know what you’re gonna ask, and yeah, I can do it,” said the Baron. “How does Skellige sound?”

“You’ll want to ask him, but I doubt he’d refuse.”

“Good, ‘cus I can’t send him anywhere else.”

Geralt took another swig of the cherry cordial. His plans were going to hell again, and this time, it was through his own doing. When had he become such a bleeding heart?

“And you?” asked Phillip. “What help do you need?”

“Going to borrow Chet's services. I’ll be fine on my own from there.”

“If you’re sure…”

“I’m sure.” He placed his goblet aside and began to gather his armour into his arms. There was no point in putting it back on until this bad weather subsisted. “He’s in the guest bedroom, or will be. You can talk to him there.”

The Baron stooped to help him with his items. Geralt made no attempt to stop him, though he could have managed on his own.

“Stay for as long as you want.” Phillip nudged open the door for him and Geralt stepped out, striding down the hallway with what was probably startling confidence. He had traversed this hallway often enough to know, approximately, how many feet he needed to walk before he arrived at his destination. At the foot of the door, Geralt found himself standing in a puddle of water.

“He’s here,” he said to Phillip, who grunted and slid past Geralt to enter the room. Geralt hesitated at the entrance, wondering if he should leave them to talk. After a moment, he instead entered and seated himself on the far-left bed, depositing his armour on the floor beside him.

Gaetan and the baron fell into deep conversation, discussing how and when Gaetan would escape Velen. The Baron didn’t have a great deal of influence, it sounded like, but he had enough that he could have a ship make a detour to pick him up from a nearby port.

He lay down on the bed and waited for their conversation to finish. When it had, and Phillip had left the room, Geralt rolled onto his side to speak to Gaetan. “Guess we’ll be parting ways soon.”

“Yeah,” said Gaetan, sounding almost breathless. “Yeah. Fuck. I could still take you to Novigrad, you know? I’ll just ride back here.” He swallowed, the sound audible in the quiet of the room. “’Least I can do to thank you.”

“It’s not safe for you there,” said Geralt. “Better for both of us if you take the ship to Skellige.”

“Okay.” Gaetan inhaled sharply. “Just- no one’s ever done something like this for me before, so I wanna do something for you. But I don’t got shit.”

“You brought me to Crow’s Perch. Got me a saddle. That’s enough.”

“Geeze.” When Gaetan laughed, it sounded a little overwrought. “Guess there’s good in the world after all. You get so used to being spat at and insulted, even when you risk your life for people, you forget not everyone is an asshole.”

“You’re welcome,” said Geralt, simply, and rolled back over so he could resume resting. He listened to the rain drum against the roof, heavy and relentless, and thought of the warm and sunny Toussaint and what pleasantries awaited him there.

* * *

He parted with Gaetan and Phillip in the early hours of the morning, shortly after the rainfall had reduced to a trickle. It didn’t look like it would stop entirely anytime soon and Geralt had no desire to overstay his welcome. With the help of a pedestrian, Geralt managed to locate Chet's hut and employ his help. The man was willing to escort him, for a price, but told Geralt he would need to be back within a few days for the sake of his ward; the boy didn’t cope well with being left in other people’s company for long periods. He was very attached to his adoptive father.

To Geralt’s relief, Chet had his own horse and thus didn’t need to share his saddle. They packed fresh supplies provided by Phillip, discussed their intended route, and rode out into the heart of Velen. Gerallt followed his companion by ear. The splash of hooves on mud was easy enough to keep track of. With most streets vacant, save for the occasional vagrant, there weren’t any sounds he could get confused with.

Several hours into their journey, the rainfall fell harder once more and they had to take shelter under a nearby mass of trees. The journey was promising to be a long and arduous one. Geralt was so cold his fingers had turned stiff and unpliable, aching as he used them to peel open his food pack and shove the slices of a chilled baked apple into his mouth. It wasn’t very filling, but he didn’t want to eat something more substantial so soon into their trek. Previous experience had taught him that eating one’s food too early could end disastrously. More than once as a younger witcher, he’d put off eating until he was at the brink of starving just so he would be able to reach his next destination, eat to recover some strength, and then take on as many contracts as possible while reinvigorated.

They resumed riding when the rain slowed and only took up camp upon finding somewhere dry they could spend the night. It was a small, mossy cave, but it would suffice for their purposes.

His companion rolled over and draped himself over Geralt’s chest in the night, drool gathering on Geralt’s breast. As he didn’t want to awaken Chet and potentially lengthen their rest, he put up with it.

They chattered idly throughout the next morning and stopped briefly at Mulbrydale, before continuing on past the Hanged Man’s Tree. From there, it was a straight journey to the Border Post. They were fortunate enough to only encounter a few wolves along the way, which were easy enough to dissuade from attacking with a blast of igni. As long as one kept to the paths, monsters were generally easy to avoid.

Several men stood guard at the entrance to the Border Post. Three, exactly. Geralt could hear the steady thrum of their heartbeats. They didn’t accelerate upon their approach, so he assumed they would be able to pass without incident.

“May we pass?” asked his companion.

“Go ahead,” said one of the men. “Careful, though; there’s been some monsters about.”

“Monsters? Here?” said Geralt inquisitively. “Odd place for them to be.”

“Nilfgaardian’s cleared out a bandit camp recently. Think they might’ve forgotten one of the bodies. Tread carefully.”

“We will,” said Geralt’s companion. “Thank you for the advice.”

“Welcome. Oh, and the Nilfgaardian’s are still on the roads! Best keep a wide breadth. They aren’t the friendliest of folk.”

They trotted their way through the Border Post and continued down the path, going slow so to avoid anyone meandering around the perimeter of the Post.

“Not far now,” murmured Chet. “We should probably stop for a bit, though.”

“It’s only a few more hours to Novigrad,” said Geralt.

“I don’t have your witcher stamina. I’m exhausted.”

“We’ll reach it by nightfall.”

“Come on, Master Witcher. My ass hurts.”

Geralt sighed and brought Roach to a stop. They were close enough to the Border Post that they wouldn’t have to worry about attracting the attention of wildlife or the monsters they’d been warned about. Better to rest here than further up the road.

They set themselves up under a tree, in what little grass was untouched by rain, and shared a companionable silence. After some time had passed, Geralt realised Chet was snoring. Reluctantly, Geralt made himself comfortable a little way from him, shifting into a meditative position, and tried to fall away from the dreary cold of the countryside by receding into the back of his mind.

They didn’t start riding again until dawn. Geralt was relieved to get back on the road.

A downpour resumed as they passed Drahim Castle. Geralt desperately wished he’d had the forethought to bring a hooded coat with him to Velen. He was so accustomed to the warmth of Toussaint that he’d donned light armour for the journey without a thought as to practicality. The life of a wine maker had made him too indolent.

The rainfall was so heavy that Geralt didn’t hear the thudding approach of a beast. He did, however, hear its roar as it launched itself at the skittering legs of Roach.

A ghoul. And where there was one ghoul, there was usually a flock.

The horses neighed and kicked and Chet bellowed over the top of them, “Witcher, what do we do!?”

“Keep moving,” he called back, sliding his silver sword out of its scabbard to make a blind lunge at the ghoul, keeping his other hand tight around Roach’s reins. The sword sang as it glanced off the back of the leathery beast and Geralt jammed his heels into Roach’s side, spurring her into a gallop. Chet surged ahead of him and was lost to the sound of the rain. At least, at this point, there was no way for Geralt to get lost; he only needed ride forward to reach Farcorners.

The ghoul pursuing him was shortly joined by a number of companions. They barrelled after him, swiping at Roach, striking her flank or Geralt’s legs on the odd occasion, until finally they achieved their goal of removing Geralt from the saddle when she bucked him off. He landed hard on his back and swung his sword even as the air was being driven out of his lungs. A toothy maw secured itself over his shoulder and Geralt bellowed, rolling over and throwing the ghoul off, but not before skin had broken beneath the pressure of its jaw. He clambered to his feet and attempted to run, as there was simply no way he was going to be able to slaughter a group of ghouls while blind. He didn’t get far before he was slashed across the thighs.

Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken, Slayer of Giants, killer of the King of the Wild Hunt, and he was about to die at the claws of a couple of ghouls. He hoped no one found him so there wouldn’t be an obituary. Wherever the hell he ended up, he was sure the shame of such a death would follow him.

The clatter of armoured men caught his ear. Up ahead, there must have been three, maybe four marching up the road, away from him.

“Hey!” he bellowed, leaping out of the way as a ghoul snapped its jaws at him. “ _Hey_! I need a hand!”

To Geralt’s great relief, the clatter of armour abruptly stopped.

“Got a ghoul problem!” A ghoul problem which was only getting worse the further he ran. They were encircling him now, lunging at him from all sides. It was difficult to parry blows from such strong claws and continue moving. His feet were stuttering in the mud. If he fell, that would spell the end of him.

He was lucky, then, that the clattering resumed and grew in volume as the men came to his rescue. They were very efficient: within minutes, the ghouls had been dispatched. One of the men caught him under the arm as he staggered away from the scene.

“They’ve been dealt with,” said the man in a thick Nilfgaardian accent. Geralt’s gratitude immediately descended a few notches. “You can calm.”

“I’m calm,” he said, carefully dislodging himself and turning around. “How far am I from Novigrad?”

“A short walk.” The man fell into a momentary silence. “Aren’t you Geralt of Rivia?”

“I am."

“Despite the circumstances, it is a pleasure to meet you. I am Commander Hans De Collins." Metal scraped upon metal as the soldier bowed his head. "I have heard much about your exploits, Geralt, but I do not recall there ever being a mention of you being blinded in Mister Dandelion's songs.”

“Recent development,” said Geralt. “I’d tell you the story, but I’m bleeding.” He made a gesture to his thighs, which had taken the brunt of the damage. They weren’t as well armoured as the rest of him. In addition to the cuts on his legs, he was fairly certain he’d managed to re-open one of the wounds left by the bandits as he could feel something sticky in the collar of his coat.

"Oh, yes. Of course." Hans cleared his throat. "I'm no medic, but I could have a look, if you like."

"Go ahead," said Geralt. Bleeding as heavily as he was, having someone look at his wounds couldn't do him any harm.

Hans guided him into sitting on a relatively dry patch of grass and hunched down before him. Geralt inhaled sharply as nimble fingers peeled his armour apart to enable examination of his wounds. “Oph, those are quite a bit deeper than they first looked," murmured Hans. "I'm afraid we haven't the tools necessary to suture your cuts, but I can at least dress them. You can get proper treatment in Novigrad."

"Thank you," said Geralt, fumbling with the latches on his leg armour. "Don't know many soldiers who would be this hospitable."

Hans scoffed. "I know you mean _Nilfgaardian's_. I know how you Nordlings feel about us, but the Emperor rules the North now. You're our neighbours." 

Lacking anything polite to say, Geralt chose not to comment on that statement. He maintained his silence as the soldier applied slightly damp gauze to his thigh. When finished, the soldier handed Geralt a small, corked flask. “I had been saving that for an emergency, but it should help with the pain. Drink all of it. You’ve got a long walk ahead of you.”

“Thought you said it was short,” said Geralt, staggering to his feet with difficulty. He pulled his trousers and armour back into place and uncorked the concoction he’d been given. He didn’t recognise the smell.

“In your state, it won’t be.”

“What is this?” Geralt asked as he took a tentative sip. Certainly didn’t taste like any painkiller he’d ever had. Much too sour. “Tastes like shit.”

“Do painkillers usually taste good?”

“No.”

“Well, there you have it,” said Hans, sliding an arm around his waist to help him walk. He then called over his shoulder, shouting for his men to follow in Elder Speech. They ceased what they were doing the moment they heard their commanders voice and ran to catch up to them. Considering the pace Geralt was going, they needn’t have hurried.

“Finish that quickly,” said Hans, gesturing at the half-empty flask in Geralt’s hand. “I would like this journey to go a little faster.”

Geralt obliged and finished the rest in two large swallows. Not a drop was spared. Grimacing at the taste, Geralt passed the flask back and wiped his lips dry on the back of a hand. The skin the potion had touched prickled uncomfortably. He didn’t think that was normal, but he wasn’t worried enough to inquire about it.

“I need to get to the Chameleon,” he told the commander. “Do you know where that is?”

“I do,” said Hans. “That’s where I hear music about you, in fact. He put out a new one about you recently: one about a beast and Beauclair. Very entertaining.”

Considering he had failed to slay the beast and ended up in prison for the death of Sylvia Anna, he hoped he would never be exposed to the content of that particular song. He couldn’t imagine it was very flattering.

“That’s where I need to go,” said Geralt.

“No, you will go to the embassy,” said Hans. “For further treatment.”

“I can receive further treatment at the Chameleon.”

“You will go to the embassy,” said Hans again, louder this time. His grip on Geralt tightened. “You needn’t worry: you will be taken care of.”

Geralt’s brow furrowed. “Take me to the gate, then. I’ll find my way from there.”

“I’ll do no such thing. You’re needed at the embassy.”

He opened his mouth to protest and realised his lips had gone numb. It wasn’t long after this realisation that the numbness spread to the rest of his body, turning him boneless and lethargic. Though he was injured, he _knew_ it wasn’t from blood loss; it was manufactured.

“What did you give me?”

“Something to help you relax. So please, relax.”

Geralt’s legs buckled. Additional hands reached out to help him up and he was too weak to protest them. His chin dropped to his clavicle.

“What…” He tried to speak, but his jaw wasn’t cooperating. Much of it had gone numb.

“It was a sedative,” said Hans, carting him along like a slab of meat. “Intended for animals and monsters and definitely not for oral consumption, so it’s dangerous for a human, but you’re not quite human, are you? You should be fine.”

Geralt couldn’t reply beyond a grunt. He certainly didn’t feel fine now that the sedative was taking effect. Nausea had started to burrow itself into his chest and bile burned the back of his throat, fierce enough to be noticeable through the numbness. When he inevitably fell unconscious, he hoped he wouldn’t be left to choke on his own vomit.

“The emperor wishes to see you,”Hans continued. “For what business, I do not know. But he has not put a price on your head, so you will likely keep it.”

As his last words to the emperor had been a lie, and a lie about his daughter, no less, Geralt was considerably less sure of keeping his head. Emhyr var Emreis wasn’t known to be a forgiving man. While he had overlooked Geralt’s insolence in the past, he had no reason to endure it any longer, now that he knew Geralt wouldn’t, under any circumstances, hand Ciri over to him. He’d be lucky to get away with a light maiming after what he had done. Assuming Emhyr knew Ciri was alive, of course, but he couldn’t imagine for what other reason he would call upon Geralt. He’d explicitly told Geralt he never wished to see him again, last they’d spoken.

Geralt fell briefly into unconsciousness and woke up to the sound of Chet yelling after him. “Witcher, hey! Is he alright? Witcher, your horse, I’ll take it to the bard, I’ll-!” He was silenced by one of the soldiers, though Geralt couldn’t tell how exactly the man went about it. Hopefully, whatever he’d done, he hadn’t inflicted lasting damage.

They continued on through the streets. Throngs of people whispered among themselves as they passed. Much of these whispered conversations featured him, and Geralt kept his eyes shut to give the impression that he was still unconscious. He didn’t need to bring more attention to himself than he already had.

The building he was taken to somehow managed to be even colder than it was outside. He was eased into a cot and after some harried conversation, a woman came to his side and divested him of his armour and clothes. His bandages were changed, just like the commander had said they would be, and the woman complained about the state of Geralt’s clothes as she left the room with them. Cold though it was, Geralt found it impossible to remain awake. He fell into another, fitful state of unconsciousness.

When he awoke some time later, he found himself in a loose t-shirt and a pair of pants, with pockmarks on his inner elbow and sutures on his wounds, and he felt even drowsier and weaker than before. He tried to sit up in the cot to investigate his location, but his head swam and prompted him to lay back down. If he attempted to stand, he would probably fall right over.

With a groan, Geralt rolled onto his side and listened intently for movement beyond the door. He was rewarded with the shuffling of feet of someone standing guard.

“I’m awake,” he croaked. “I need to speak to someone.”

The door creaked open. “Witcher?”

“I need to speak to someone,” he said again.

“You will be transferred to a carriage shortly. You can speak to those accompanying you on your journey to Vizima.”

“I need to speak to someone before then.”

“Speaking to someone will not change your situation, witcher. You will be taken to Vizima, where you will meet the Emperor.”

“Can _you_ tell me anything?”

There was a moments pause, then the man said, “What is it you wish to know?”

“Did Emhyr mention why he wanted to see me?”

“The _emperor_ ,“ the man began, an irate note in his voice. “Did not specify, though by the lack of urgency and wanted posters, one assumes not for the purpose of disposing of you.”

“What- what exactly-“ He cut himself off by turning and vomiting on the floor. As though nothing of interest had occurred, he then continued. “What exactly did he tell you?”

“To secure you and bring you to him, but it wasn’t an active pursuit.”

While the man was speaking, Geralt wiped his mouth on the back of a hand. He could taste acid on his teeth.

“We were to collect you only if convenient. Not to make a scene.”

Emhyr hadn’t wanted to bring Geralt’s brand of trouble upon himself, evidently. Or Ciri’s, perhaps; she could certainly wreak havoc when she wanted to and she would have little mercy for a man whose sole contribution to her life had been misery. Ruthless though he was, Emhyr wasn’t _stupid_.

He lay back down in bed and wiped the corners of his eyes with a thumb. He was dreadfully tired despite having only just awoken. “I need something to eat and drink,” he mumbled into his hands.

The sound of receding footsteps. They didn’t return for some minutes, and Geralt had started to doze off by then. It took a great deal of self-discipline to rise onto his elbows and accept the water and food instead of rolling over and going back to sleep. He drank the contents of the glass he’d been given in three gulps and swallowed the food – bread and cheese – so hastily that he nearly choked on it.

“Easy,” said the guard. “Don’t asphyxiate before your meeting with the emperor. He won’t like that.”

Geralt snorted, but said nothing. He finished off the bread and cheese without further incident, though his stomach ached once they had settled in his belly.  He had to focus very hard on not letting himself vomit again to keep them down.

The guard resumed standing by the door. In his drug-induced daze, he wasn’t sure what else he should ask, so he fell into a silence that eventually transitioned into him falling back asleep. It was a short nap. A throng of men entered the room before he could grab any substantial amount of rest and guided him out of bed and into a chilly hallway. His feet were bare, he belatedly realised. The stone beneath them radiated iciness straight up into his bones. He shivered uncontrollably.

He was led outside, across cobblestones, and into a plush carriage that strangely didn’t manage to be any warmer than the building he had just left. Two men entered after him. The carriage was large enough that Geralt could stretch out his legs and still not touch them, but he curled into a corner regardless, drawing a cushion close to himself in an attempt to retain what little warmth he had left in his body.  

The Nilfgaardian’s didn’t make the journey a pleasant one. They muttered about him in elder speech, within hearing range; called him a mutant, a creep, a burden, openly wondered why the emperor would want to talk to such an individual. It was common for the Nilfgaardian’s to level such insults at any Northener, but those peoples didn’t have to sit in a fucking carriage with them for the full week it took to reach Emhyr’s palace in Vizima. They didn’t provide him with an adequate amount of food or water, either, so the first thing he did when the chamberlain introduced him to a bathtub was swallow a few mouthfuls of it (which prompted the chamberlain to give him a jug of water and a platter of fruit, which he devoured while dainty hands scrubbed at the filth that had accumulated on his skin).

He was still chewing on a mouthful of juicy pear when the chamberlain guided him out of the tub to be dressed in a doublet. As he was unable to see, the chamberlain carefully described each one for him.

“Choose for me,” he told the man, which turned out to be a mistake, as he ended up wearing a doublet with one of those stupid frilly neck things that Geralt couldn’t quite remember the name of. It rubbed against his throat and made it itch.

He did not bow when the chamberlain announced him. Emhyr, who was apparently used to this, simply asked the chamberlain to leave, who did so with a simpering mumble of apology.

“Thought you never wanted to see me again,” said Geralt wryly, trying to appear at ease. It was hard to do so when a man who could, and likely _wanted_ to kill you sat in such close proximity.

Or maybe he was standing. Geralt couldn’t tell, and he greatly wished he could. Not knowing even that much made it all the more apparent how powerless he was.

“I’m sure you shared that sentiment,” said Emhyr, equally as wry. “And it seems the gods have obliged you.”

“What do you want, Emhyr?" asked Geralt, growing impatient. "I assume you didn't call me here just to gloat."

A chair creaked. He’d been sitting, then. “You ought to speak to your emperor with more respect, witcher. It is only through my good graces that you are not in chains, as you should be.”

“What have I done to earn your good graces?” 

“Absolutely nothing.” Geralt heard his footsteps. Emhyr was approaching. “But I can be charitable, despite what you may believe of me.”

“I’ve received your charity in the past. Can’t say I appreciate it.”

The emperor was close – so close that Geralt could feel his hot breath on his face, and he was sure the man was staring hard at the white sheen over his irises.

“A blind witcher,” drawled Emhyr. “Sounds about as useful as a mute songbird.”

“Then why am I here? Seeing as I am, by your own admission, completely useless.”

“You are here, witcher, because last we met, you told me my daughter was dead.”

“Do you have any reason not to-“

“Silence.” Emhyr’s tone had turned cold and dangerous. The command was compelling enough that Geralt's mouth shut on its own accord. “It would be in your best interests not to lie to me again,” said Emhyr. ”Your circumstances, while already unpleasant, can be made worse.”

“Threatening me?” Geralt tipped his head back. “That’ll endear you to Ciri, I’m sure.”

“Witcher-“

“She _asked_ me to tell you she was dead. If that doesn’t tell you she doesn’t want to see you, I don’t know what will.”

Emhyr was quite for a long moment. “Such insolence would usually earn one a trip to the dungeons. Perhaps even the gallows.”

“Doubt it’d do anything to lessen my insolence.”

“Hm.” Emhyr backed away from him. He heard a drawer open. “If she insists on not speaking to me, then I will respect her decision, but I would like you to deliver this letter to her.” Emhyr returned to him and caught his wrist in a strong hand. He pressed the letter into his palm. “Whether or not she reads it will also be her decision.”

“How do you expect me to get it to her?” asked Geralt, bewildered. “I’m _blind_. You couldn’t have chosen a more useless delivery boy.”

“She will come for you, eventually,” said Emhyr simply, returning to his seat. His cushion wheezed beneath his weight. “You will be provided a room for the duration of your stay. Any needs you have in regard to your… affliction, will be addressed by my staff.”

“I never agreed to this.”

“And what are your alternative choices? You could leave, if you so desired; I am not imprisoning you here, but I don’t foresee you lasting long beyond these walls in your current condition.”

Geralt took a moment to gather his thoughts, then said, “Fine, I'll deliver the letter.” Or at least keep hold of it. "But I require something in return."

The Emperor sighed, no doubt annoyed by his obstinance. “Go on.”

“This can be fixed,” he said, gesturing to his face. “I need to speak to Eilhart, see if she has a magical solution-“

“No," said Emhyr firmly. "She is otherwise occupied, and will be for some time. Do not ask me what with, Geralt.”

Geralt could tell he wasn’t going to get anywhere trying to argue. “Fine, then I require a man by the name of Olgierd Von Everec. He will likely be found in Oxenfurt Forest, at the Von Everec Estate. If not there, Oxenfurt itself would be the next place to look.”

To Geralt’s surprise, Emhyr offered no objection. “Very well. He will be found and brought here. Have you any other requests?”

Geralt couldn’t tell if Emhyr was being serious with his offer and hesitated for a good, long moment.

“Witcher,” said Emhyr impatiently. “If you haven’t nothing else to say, then you may leave. Without ceremony. I know you’re not inclined to do such things.”

“The man that did this to me is very dangerous,” he started. “Bringing him here will put you and the palace residents in danger, so should Olgierd arrive before Ciri, I ask that I be relocated.”

“No,” said Emhyr simply. “You will explain to me what exactly this ‘danger’ is at a later date. My chamberlain will lead you to your lodgings.”

The chamberlain, who must have been standing at the door, abruptly entered and pressed him insistently back out into the hallway. Gealt, who was a little disorientated with all that had happened since his arrival in Vizima, allowed the man to drag him through the palace without protest.

“You failed to bow, yet again,” said the chamberlain miserably. “How either of us have not been hung is miraculous.”

“The emperor and I are old friends,” said Geralt. “He doesn’t mind.”

“He certainly looked like he minded,” the chamberlain muttered.

The moment Geralt was introduced to a soft mattress and a warm quilt, he tugged off the doublet and slipped inside. Within minutes, he had sprawled himself out and fallen asleep.


	2. Part Two

Breakfast was delivered to his chambers the moment his tenders noticed he was awake. Still lying in bed, Geralt ate every morsel on his plate and washed it down with two glasses of apple juice, then had one of the girls escort him to the bathing area so he could soak the early hours of the morning away. He knew Olgierd would be here within a few weeks, and perhaps even Ciri once word got out that Geralt was staying at the Vizima palace, and he wanted to take advantage of the luxury while he had the opportunity.

To keep him occupied, his tenders left him a platter of fruit, cheeses and wine and directed him to an area of the bath one could lie down in without being fully submerged. Geralt made himself comfortable in that area and brought the platter close, chewing on grapes and cheeses while he let the water draw the tension out of him. Somewhere around his first hour in the bath, he fell into a doze. The last few days had taken a lot out of him.

He didn’t awaken until he felt the water stirring. Startling out of his slumber, Geralt shot upright and nearly fell sideways into the deeper end.

“Calm yourself, witcher,” came the emperor’s dulcet tones.

Geralt carefully evacuated the resting area and sat in a corner. “What’re you doing here?”

“These are my bathing chambers. I am here to bathe.”

“I’m in your bathing chambers?” He had thought it odd that he had been left alone in such a large bathing area, but he had assumed that had been under the emperor’s direction.

“That is what I said.”

Geralt discreetly hunched over his knees. He felt too vulnerable, being blind and completely naked in front of Emhyr. “You could’ve waited until I was done.”

“No, I could not have. You may have the pleasure of being able to wash whenever you please, but I have a very limited time during which I can bathe.”

“Didn’t think you would lower yourself to bathing with the likes of me.”

“I’d hardly say we’re bathing together. You are an unfortunate nuisance.”

“You could’ve forced me to leave.”

“Yes,” said Emhyr, his voice turning throaty as he relaxed. “I could have, but I did not; I assumed you would sleep through my bathing.”

“You assumed wrong, so where does that leave us?”

“That’s entirely up to you.” The water stirred; Emhyr must have started cleaning himself. Which he had every right to do since this was his bathing chamber, Geralt reminded himself. _Geralt_ was the interloper.

Geralt started eating grapes just to have something other than the sound of Emhyr bathing to focus on. After a long silence, Emhyr spoke again.

“Did my daughter truly ask you to tell me she was dead?”

There was a hint of something in his voice, something Geralt had heard while chastising Emhyr for being a bad father, that gave him pause.

“Yes,” said Geralt. Emhyr didn’t stop washing, though his movements slowed. “Probably would have told you something else entirely had I had it my way.”

“Something deeply disrespectful, no doubt.”

“You know me well.”

“Unfortunately.” A sigh. “Geralt, what would you advise?”

“Hm?” Geralt tilted his head.

“I have advisors on all matters, except _this_. So, tell me: what would you advise regarding my daughter?”

If he was asking Geralt, he truly must have been desperate. “I’d tell you to leave her alone, but I’m guessing you don’t want to do that.”

Emhyr made an affirmative sound. A rather annoyed one.

“Fine. Give me a minute.” He groped around for the goblet and wine the girls had left. “If we’re going to have this conversation while I’m stuck naked in a bath with you, I’ll need a drink.”

“You are not being kept here against your will.”

“I don’t particularly want to flash the emperor. It sounds like a death sentence.”

Emhyr snorted softly, then rose from where he was sitting. “Half the things you say sound like a death sentence to my ears.” Pushing past Geralt’s arm, the emperor seized the bottle of wine Geralt had been searching for and filled his goblet for him, carefully placing it in his hand. “Do not spill it. I don’t wish to bathe in alcohol.”

“No? It’s a powerful disinfectant.”

"Personally, I favour soap."

When Emhyr sat down, he did so close to Geralt, perhaps to keep an eye on him while he drank.

“Now,” said Emhyr slowly. “I believe you were about to advise me.”

Geralt swallowed a couple of mouthfuls of wine before he spoke. “Do you remember your relationship with your father?”

“Yes,” said Emhyr, his voice a touch cold. Geralt was treading dangerous territory. “I hope you do not expect me to divulge it.”

“I don’t.” Geralt swallowed another mouthful of wine. “Just need to know if it was a good or bad one.”

A long pause. “Good,” said Emhyr, just when Geralt had started to wonder if he was about to be dragged to the dungeons for his nerve.

“You should know how to act like a good father, then,” said Geralt simply. “You have a reference point.”

“It is not that simple.”

“No, it isn’t, but you make it harder than it needs to be by barely even trying. You treat Ciri like a means to an end. You disrespect her agency; you even seek to deprive her of it. Stop trying to impede her freedom and she might actually tolerate you one day.” Geralt drank another mouthful of wine. "At this point, after all you have done, even _tolerance_ is asking a lot from her."

Instead of getting angry or indignant, like Geralt had expected, Emhyr said nothing. Geralt listened to the platter shift and a few gapes being plucked off their stems. He didn’t know what that meant, if Emhyr was going to take his advice to heart, but it didn’t much matter, he supposed; if Ciri decided she didn’t want to talk to Emhyr, his efforts to learn to be a better parent would be for naught. He could not force Ciri to accept him as kin now any more than he could have in the past.

“I will,” began the Emperor haltingly. “Reflect on what you have told me.” He ate his grapes and washed his hands in the water, then stood and left without further preamble. Geralt sat there for a couple more minutes, gathering his thoughts, before he too vacated the water and wrapped a towel around his waist, journeying his way back to his room. It took a bit of searching, but he did eventually find his chambers and dress in the fresh, citrus smelling clothes that had been set out for him.

Later that evening, he was given a new letter from the emperor to replace the one he’d stowed in a drawer. He held it for a while, stunned by the progression of events, and then put it on the bedside table so he would be able to find it later.

Little of interest happened throughout the rest of the day. Now that he hadn’t the emperor to distract him, Geralt found himself bored and wandering his chamber just to give himself something to do. He had never been very good at sitting still, even after getting comfortable in Corvo Bianco. He’d liked to keep himself busy by maintaining his armour and swords, doing the occasional contract, working on his garden, and reading his massive backlog of books, and currently he could do none of those things. 

With nothing else to do, he slept. Thankfully, his years of training enabled him to slip into slumber on command.

He dreamed of Ciri, just like he had all those years ago. He dreamed about her slipping away from him and heard familiar, preternatural laughter as he jolted awake.

* * *

Emhyr sought him a few days later. He was found wandering aimlessly through the courtyard and promptly escorted to Emhyr’s office.

“Should you want to go for a walk in the future,” said Emhyr the moment the door had been shut. “I ask that you take an escort.”

“They were busy.”

“They will make themselves available for you.”

Geralt shrugged. “Fine,” he said. “Why am I here?”

“I wished to speak,” said Emhyr. “Now is the time for you to divulge what this ‘danger’ you mentioned is.”

He suspected Emhyr wouldn’t want him to bring it here, once he told him about it. Which worked just fine for Geralt, who didn’t want to perform a dark ritual in the Vizima palace, anyway. “Are you familiar with Djinn's?” he asked.

“Yes. Proceed.”

“The creature that did this wasn’t unlike a Djinn. Just as powerful, but without the limitations.” He shifted, grazing his fingers along the edge of Emhyr’s desk to orientate himself. “Not the sort of creature you’d want in your throne room.”

“I wouldn’t permit you to do anything in my throne room, let alone fight a monster there.”

“Going to have to leave the palace then, so-“

“There are other rooms in Vizima palace that I may permit use of.” The bells on Emhyr’s sleeves chimed – had he just gestured for Geralt to continue? Geralt pressed his lips together to subdue a smile. It must have been frustrating for Emhyr to converse with someone who was blind when he was typically able to convey himself in a look. “Go on,” Emhyr said after a moment.

“To get my sight back, I’ll need to challenge him.”

“To a fight?”

“Of sorts,” said Geralt. “Doesn’t have to be a physical challenge. Could just challenge it to a game of chess.” Which he wouldn’t do, because Gaunter would undoubtedly be able to win such a simple, straightforward game.

“It battles through wits?” Emhyr made a thoughtful sound. “What a strange beast you describe.”

“Little more sapient than a ‘beast’,” said Geralt, tilting his head to better track Emhyr’s movements as the man rose out of his chair. “He’s powerful. Extremely powerful.”

“And highly intelligent, it sounds like.” Emhyr’s footsteps creaked closer. “Powerful, intelligent beings typically do not wreak havoc without cause, or they would have done so already.”

Geralt had to curb his desire to reply with a wry comment about Emhyr’s recent wars. The Emperor only had so much patience for his wit. 

Emhyr stood close. “What do you intend to challenge him to?”

“Couldn’t say, even if I was sure. Could be listening.”

“Are they omnipresent?”

“No. Just clever.”

“Considering who they chose as an enemy, I am inclined to disagree.” A warm hand settled on his forearm. “Come. This conversation will continue in my quarters.”

Geralt allowed Emhyr to guide him, though he was confused. “What’s wrong with here?”

“You are occupying what little free time available to me and I have no intention of spending it in the same place I am from dusk ‘till dawn when I have the option of my quarters.”

The emperor steadied him on his way down the steps, grip firm on his forearm and his other hand coming to rest at the small of Geralt’s back. It bewildered Geralt to have Emhyr so close, to be relying on him for support. He hadn’t known the man capable of such… charity.

“Should’ve called me in when you were finished with your…” Geralt made a vague gesture with his hand, since he thought it would be diminishing Emhyr’s position to call it ‘paperwork’.

“There is no set time for when I finish,” said Emhyr. “The country doesn’t stop running at my leisure, and nor do I.”

“Starting to see why you would want Ciri to take over.”

Emhyr gently pulled him down another hallway. Their footsteps echoed. “I don’t wish to saddle her with my difficulties. She would have many years to learn and adjust, as well as some of the best advisors in the continent.”

“Wasn’t trying to criticise.”

“I am aware. But it is of benefit to both of us if I allay any concerns you may have.”

“Guess you can teach an old hedgehog new tricks.”

Geralt could practically hear Emhyr’s mouth pursing.

“The same can’t be said for wolves, unfortunately,” drawled Emhyr. “But I shall try regardless, for Cirilla’s sake.”

A door creaked open and a delightful heat billowed out, warming Geralt’s chilled skin. It felt more like opening the door to a sauna than a bedroom. He allowed Emhyr to pull him inside and noted, with some bemusement, that the room carried a strong scent of cinnamon and fruits. Not the sort of smells he’d imagined a man like Emhyr to surround himself with. Granted, he hadn’t dedicated a lot of time to thinking about Emhry, since he generally wasn’t someone Geralt liked to acknowledge the existence of unless absolutely necessary. 

He found himself being pressed into a very large, comfortable chair. He relaxed into it, tilting his head after Emhyr as the man sat down across from him.

“Two chairs?” Geralt folded his arms. “Were you expecting me?”

“No,” said Emhyr. “But you are not the first to join me in my chambers.”

Geralt considered making a comment about the Emperor’s consorts – but thought better of it.

“This… individual,” said Emhyr after a short silence. “That you will be challenging. What happens should you lose the challenge?”

“Something unpleasant, I expect.” Maybe he would lose his soul, maybe not. Or maybe just his sight. He wouldn’t be getting off scot-free, though; he knew that much. “To me,” he added. “Doubt he’ll bring your subjects into it, unless they try to intervene.”

The chair creaked as Emhyr leaned back in it. “It would disappoint Cirilla terribly if you were to be harmed.”

The formal wording had Geralt rolling his eyes. “I don’t intend to be harmed, if I can help it. If you’re going to suggest I-“

“Remain blind?” predicted Emhyr. “I did not intend to make that suggestion, and nor do I hold any delusions that I could force you if I so desired.”

“Always a good thing to keep in mind,” said Geralt. “People who do usually live longer.”

“So I’ve noticed.” A beat. “If there’s any further assistance I can extend you…”

“What would you give me?”

“Trying to measure my generosity, witcher?.”

“Just find it curious that you're offering.” Geralt shifted in his chair. “And for the second time, now. Are you really _that_ concerned about Ciri’s happiness?”

“A father ought to be.” Emhyr plucked a grape off a stem. “I concern myself with Cirilla’s well-being, which encompasses you. Provided your requests are reasonable, I am willing to fulfil them.” A grape crunched between his molars. He swallowed. “Did Cirilla ever tell you why it is I left her at Stygga?”

Geralt was caught off guard by the question. Ciri had openly pondered Emhyr's reasons for releasing her, but never had she disclosed her conclusions. “No.”

“Then allow me to divulge my reasons, for the sake of transparency." He didn't wait for a response from Geralt. "When I referred to your compunctions as weak at Stygga castle, I was mistaken. I realised upon seeing Cirilla's grief how…” His next words had to struggle their way out Emhyr’s throat. “ _Foolish_ I had been to ever believe I could subject my own child to forced marriage and impregnation, even for the sake of the world. I could not stand to see her upset for a mere few minutes; how, then, was I to tolerate it for the rest of my life?” Another stem snapped as Emhyr plucked free a grape. He didn't eat this one, rolling it between his fingers. “Now, by rejecting me and the offer of my whole kingdom, my daughter has forced yet _another_ realisation upon me."

"Oh?" Geralt was genuinely curious. 

"Indeed. My intentions prior to being told she was dead were, as you may have surmised, not entirely pure. There was a heavy political aspect that prompted the decision. Remnants of that lingered until our recent conversation.”

“Guessed as much,” said Geralt, with a hint of reproach.

“Rest assured, there is no longer a political motivation,” said Emhyr. “You see, Geralt, in forty-six years of life, I feel have accomplished much. And yet, with the daily threat of being deposed, of having my name sullied or wiped from history, I have come to recognise the futility of my victories. I have no relatives. I’ve no wife. I have not been in love in many a year and nor have I sought such things in some time. I have given no thought to conceiving another child, as I do not wish to bring another child into the world simply for the purpose of being my heir. I have prioritised my work to the point that the child I do have has only been present for a fraction of my life. Do you understand what I am saying, Witcher?”

Geralt nodded slowly. 

“I desire, even as a peripheral presence, to be part of her life," said Emhyr, his voice startlingly earnest. "Her time is more valuable to me than I can express. However, I am aware that I could spend the rest of my life seeking Cirilla’s forgiveness and I still would not have earned it.”

For a good few seconds, Geralt was speechless. He hadn’t anticipated a confession, and certainly not one of this nature. It was reminiscent of their conversation back at Stygga, where Emhyr had laid himself bare before Geralt - after some prompting. But even then, Emhyr had been cold and uncompromising. 

When he finally spoke, his voice was strained with uncertainty. “You’re not going to ask her to take the throne?”

“I will ask,” said Emhyr in an even tone. “But if she does not desire it, then so be it. I will not press the matter.”

“Without an heir, who will claim the throne?”

“Someone not of my blood,” said Emhyr simply. “And I will have to learn to live with that.”

Geralt folded his hands in his lap, uncertain as to how to proceed. In his mind, Emhyr had always been a simple, single-faceted character whose aspirations reigned above all else, above even basic human decency. And here Emhyr was, proving that assessment wrong, forcing Geralt to recognise him as a human being rather than a hurdle.

“Well,” said Emhyr quietly, after a long moment of silence. “I have aired my intentions. If you wish to leave now, you may, but I invite you to take lunch with me.”

Geralt hesitated.

“Over a game of chess, perhaps. I have heard your analytical skills are to be envied.”

“With gwent and monsters, not chess,” said Geralt, but he didn’t rise to leave. He didn’t particularly want to stay, but there was little else in the castle to keep his mind occupied. “You’ll have to move the pieces for me.”

“Of course. I expect you know the layout?”

“One through eight for rows, A through H for columns.”

“Good. Let us begin.”

Unsurprisingly, Geralt didn’t win any of the three games that they played, and that was even with Emhyr going over the location of each of the pieces whenever Geralt requested a reminder. It was difficult to picture the board in his mind. Hopefully he wouldn’t be blind long enough to have to become adept.

They conversed idly while they played, and it became apparent after a mere few minutes that Emhyr was an engaging and pleasant conversational partner. Which was a necessary quality for an emperor to have, Geralt supposed, but with all their baggage, he’d never imagined himself enjoying Emhyr’s company. Emhyr had caused him and his – their? – daughter a lot of grief and Geralt wasn’t a very forgiving man where hurting his family was concerned. But Emhyr appeared to be trying, and that made all the difference.

Emhyr evaded the topic of politics. Another thing that surprised Geralt, and he was grateful. He was in no mood to discuss the state of the North, even if he had involved himself in its future more than he would have liked. He'd had more than his fill of politics while being roped into coups and civil wars.

What they did talk about were casual topics. Topics concerning friends, pastimes, Toussaint (which Emhyr mentioned a desire to move to upon retirement), and what Geralt intended to do once his sight had returned. To the latter topic, he told Emhyr he would go home and enjoy the sights of Toussaint from his vineyard. The sunsets there were always spectacular. Sunrises, too, but he preferred to sleep in these days, so he didn’t often see them.

Before he took his leave, Emhyr called after him, “If you would join me for dinner tomorrow, we may continue this conversation.”

Geralt hesitated at the threshold, his guides hand resting on his forearm. “Alright,” he said after a lengthy silence. He might as well, just in case Emhyr had more he wanted to discuss. He wasn’t opposed to the company, either. It would be rather boring to lie around in his room and do nothing all day. It wasn’t like Emhyr’s subjects were leaping at the opportunity to speak to him.

He was returned to his chambers and found himself grievously bored within minutes. With nothing else to do, he ate through an entire platter of fruit, then felt his way to the bathing quarters and sat down in a warm pool of water until slumber took him.

* * *

It took Emhyr’s men a week to spread Geralt’s location throughout the Continent and an additional two days for Ciri to spot the notices and come to retrieve Geralt. She did so in an unexpectedly bombastic manner, slamming open the doors to Emhyr’s quarters while Emhyr was in the middle of checkmating Geralt (which brought their scores to 12 and 5, much to Geralt’s dismay).

“You—” she began, but didn’t get far with whatever accusation she had been about to make. “Wh- Geralt? What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” he answered quickly, standing out of his chair and keeping a hand on its back to remain orientated. “I’m fine,” he added before she could ask. Which wasn’t entirely true, given the state of his eyes, but he was otherwise in perfect health. 

“But Emhyr, I thought he…”

“I have done nothing except provide Geralt shelter,” stated Emhyr. “Cirilla, you may release your sword. You’ve no need for it here.”

Geralt’s mouth twitched into a brief smile at that. Ever the hotspur.

“What happened? Is _anyone_ going to fill me in?” Ciri moved closer. “Geralt, wh- oh! Your eyes! You’re blind!”

Geralt arched an eyebrow. “That wasn’t mentioned on the notices?”

“No, it certainly wasn’t!” There was a slight accusatory tone, directed at Emhyr.

“I thought he would want to extend that information himself.” Emhyr rose from his chair as well. “I shall allow you two time to catch up. My chamberlain will by waiting by the door for you, Cirilla. He will show you to your quarters, provided you wish to utilise them. Or Geralt’s, if you prefer.”

Geralt slowly lowered himself back into his chair.

“You aren’t going to try to force me to stay?” asked Ciri, clearly nervous. “Either of us to stay?”

“No.” The door creaked as Emhyr prepared to leave. “I hold no desire to force you to do anything, Cirilla. Your decisions are entirely your own.”

His footsteps receded and were followed shortly by the harried footfall of his chamberlain, who came to stand by the door.

Ciri didn’t sit down in the chair across from Geralt. She instead closed the distance between them and pulled Geralt into a tight hug that warmed him right down to his feet. He squeezed her tight in return, stroking between her shoulder blades like he often had when she had been a child.

“When I read the notice, I’d assumed the worst,” murmured Ciri into his shoulder. Her hands came up to cup his face, one of her thumbs brushing delicately beneath an eye. “Of course, this is only moderately better than I _had_ been assuming… Miss Eilhart might be able to fix your eyes, but convincing her to do it will be something of a feat. Not entirely sure where she is, either, but I can go searching.”

“No need,” said Geralt. “Already know how to recover my sight.”

“What’re you waiting for, then?” asked Ciri. “Me?”

“No.” Geralt gently guided her hands away from his face, squeezing them in his fingers. “Rather you weren’t around for it, in fact. There’s someone who wants something from me, and I’m going to give it to them.”

“I can help,” Ciri insisted. “You shan’t try to force me not to. You know how successful that usually is.”

“Yeah, not at all,” said Geralt. “But if I need your help, it’ll be asked for. Right now, I am in need of nothing but your company.”

“You missed me, I gather.” Ciri gave him another chaste hug. “I don’t intend to leave anytime soon, regardless of how… uncomfortable this place makes me. You’re definitely not being kept here, right? Because if you are…”

“This is voluntary.” Well, for the most part. He didn’t want to upset Ciri by mentioning that Emhyr had initially had him dragged here.

“Why would you _voluntarily_ stay here? It’s awful.”

Geralt almost found himself disagreeing. After re-experiencing Velen, this time from the perspective of someone vulnerable, he could quite easily call his time here pleasant.

He gestured to his eyes. “In the state I’m in, I can’t afford to be picky. I have to make do with whatever is nearby, and Emhyr has been willing to cooperate with me thus far.”

“Well, I’m here now, so…”

“If Emhyr’s men can’t find who I’m looking for, we’ll leave, alright? We’ll go to Novigrad.”

“Alright,” said Ciri, clearly reluctant. “But if Emhyr tries anything, I’m leaving. I’m here for you, _not_ him.”

“He won’t force you into anything,” said Geralt. “Can’t, in fact.”

“Doesn’t mean he won’t try,” muttered Ciri. She vacated Geralt’s personal space and began to pace. “Are you sure there is nothing I can do for you? I’d rather not sit here and do nothing.”

“I already said what you can do.”

“What?”

“Keep me company.”

Ciri sighed. “You know I never tire of your company, even when we see each other incessantly, but how is _that_ going to help you get your sight back?”

“It isn’t,” said Geralt simply. He grasped the arms of his chair and heaved himself up. “Consider it practice for the future, so you’re ready to look after me when I’m old and decrepit.”

Ciri snorted. “Thought you were already old and decrepit.”

“All the more reason to start practising now. Come on, guide this old man to his chambers.”

“And the chamberlain?”

“Sure’ll be fine after having a bit of a cry at our insubordination.”

With a snigger, Ciri helped him out of his chair and looped an arm around his waist, pulling him toward the door much too fast to be showing any real concern for Geralt’s age. Nearly one hundred though he was, he was very fit and spry. He probably wouldn’t need help standing for at least a few more centuries. Vesemir was testament to the durability of witches, being well into his three hundreds (or perhaps four hundreds? Geralt had never directly asked his age).

The chamberlain seemed more relieved than upset to be dismissed of his task. Probably didn’t want to deal with Geralt any more than he absolutely had to.

As Ciri wasn’t familiar with the layout of Vizima castle, it took a considerable amount of walking for them to locate Geralt’s chamber. Ciri found their walking around in circles funny enough to break into laughter and Geralt couldn't help but follow suit. The guards muttered biting things under their breath as they passed, irate with their boisterousness, which only made Ciri laugh harder. By the end of their journey, they were both breathless and pink-faced.

It was after well over an hour of chatting to Ciri and chewing on pomegranate seeds that Ciri spotted the letter addressed to her on his bedside table. Geralt was hesitant to let her have it. He had assumed Ciri wouldn’t reach him this fast and had intended her to read it when they were far from all this, far from Emhyr, so she could gather her thoughts away from any possible influence. It was pointless to try to stop her, however, so he didn’t try beyond asking her if she _really_ wanted to do it here and now.

“It’s just a letter, Geralt,” she said, but she sounded nervous as she fiddled with the fragile paper, picking at the wax stamp. “If I don’t like what it says, I’ll just throw it away. Might even leave it in Emhyr’s room to find if it’s particularly insulting.”

“Are you sure-“

“Yes, Geralt, I’m sure.”

Geralt pursed his lips. “You don’t have to read it in front of me if you don’t want to.”

“I _do_ want to,” said Ciri, dismissing his concerns by ripping into the envelope. “I might want your advice, so just… sit quietly for a moment.”

Geralt could hear youthful rebellion rising in Ciri’s tone, so he did as she asked without further comment. It was her decision, in any case. Geralt was only there as support.

He wished he could see Ciri’s expression as she read, because she made a variety of strange little sounds that Geralt couldn’t accurately ascribe to any emotion. He could hazard a guess that she was troubled, though. Anyone would be while in her position.

“I think,” said Ciri after a long silence. “I need to speak to him.” She joined Geralt back on the bed, sitting thigh to thigh. “Do you think I should?”

“That’s not my decision,” said Geralt.

“I’m not asking you to decide for me. I just… would you talk to him in my position?”

“Don’t know. I’ve never been and will never be in your position.” He slid an arm around her shoulders and pulled her head to his chest, her hair tickling his chin. “But you aren’t obligated to talk to him. You can even leave, if you want to. I won’t go anywhere.”

“Won’t he get upset if I leave? He’s been searching for me all this time…”

“Nothing will be done to me.” Even if Emhyr had desired to hurt him, the man wasn’t stupid enough to earn Ciri’s ire by causing him harm. “You can go anytime you want,” he added.

“I don’t know what I want to do.” Ciri slumped in his grip. “I don’t consider him my father, you know. You’re the only father I’ve ever had. I don’t think I’ll ever see him that way.”

Geralt stroked her arm and allowed her to talk. She needed to sort through her thoughts and sometimes the best way to do that was by using someone as a sound board.

“What he’s asking me to do… I can’t be an empress, and I can’t be his daughter. The only thing I could do is spend time with him sometimes, and I’m hesitant to even do _that_. I don’t know why he even wants to spend time with me. He’s never treated me like a daughter before.” She pressed her face into Geralt’s chest and muttered, “Well, maybe I _could_ be an empress, but I don’t particularly want to be one.”

“Then don’t be one,” said Geralt, folding his arms over her shoulders. “You’re a witcher. A damn good one. Don’t have to give that up for Emhyr.”

“It wouldn’t _be_ for Emhyr.” She slowly brought her arms up between their bodies, parting them. “I- I should talk to him.” A sigh, and then she said in a stronger voice, “I will talk to him and I’ll think about what he has to say. But that’s all.”

“I’ll be here when you return.” Geralt offered her a smile. “Or if you don’t decide to return. I’ll still be here. I won’t be going anywhere for a while.”

“Thank you, Geralt.”

She left with a steady, confident gait that put any anxiety Geralt’d had at ease. He had full faith in her. Whatever Emhyr threw at her, no matter how testing, he knew she could handle it. She’d faced far worse than a spurned parent before, after all; this was a trifle in comparison to the Wild Hunt.

When she returned an indeterminable amount of time later, she lay down in bed beside Geralt, covered herself with the quilt, and said nothing. Geralt didn’t disturb her beyond resting a hand against her back, just so she knew he was there if she needed him.

Early the next morning, he found the space Ciri had been occupying cool and vacant. He didn’t expect she would be back for a while. The girl needed time to think far away from the source of her turmoil.

Said source called Geralt into his quarters late in the evening, and while Geralt didn’t want to make assumptions, he couldn’t help the accusatory tone in his voice when he asked, “What did you say to her?”

“Insolent as ever, witcher,” answered Emhyr, unperturbed.

“Answer the question.”

“I told her nothing more than I told you.” He heard rhythmic clacking as Emhyr set up the board. “With addendums, to better clarify my intentions.”

“She didn’t seem happy when she came to me last night.”

“And you expected something else? I’m sure you can make an educated guess as to why she might be unhappy. Rest assured, I did not make a deliberate effort to upset her.”

Geralt felt his way over to his usual chair and sat down. “She left,” he said.

Emhyr paused. “Will she return?”

“She might. For me, if not you.”

“I see. Very well.” He gathered by the following silence that that wasn’t what Emhyr had wanted to hear. Only when the final chess pieces were in place did Emhyr speak again. “By now, my men will have reached Velen. You can anticipate Olgierd Von Everec’s arrival in the next two, to three weeks, depending on how far he has strayed.”

“And if they don’t find him?”

“They will,” said Emhyr, with complete confidence.

“Three weeks.” Geralt ran a hand over his face and slumped back in his chair. “Stuck here for three weeks.”

“You do not enjoy palace life?”

“I might, if I could _see_.”

“Mm.” Emhyr made his first move. “F-7 to F-5. Would being able to smell suffice? The gardens here are pleasant all year round.”

“Lacking anything else…”

“And we would indulge in chess, of course.”

Geralt nodded his head in gratitude. Emhyr didn’t have to accommodate him to this extent and it was a pleasant surprise that he was. Perhaps after a few weeks of this, it would cease surprising him.

The following day, they moved their customary game to the gardens, and it was as pleasant as Emhyr had suggested it would be. The garden was surprisingly warm and suffused in the sweet scents of roses, orchids, and daisies, and other smells Geralt couldn’t identify through scent alone.

It had been a while since he’d last felt the sun on his skin, and he relished in having it beat down on his back, drawing sweat to the nape of his neck that swiftly dried under a healthy breeze that wafted in from the city. A fountain a short distance away offered him some reprieve in the form of stray droplets.

It was easy to forget his situation, at least for a short while, while in that garden. While on the road, he’d often meditated in the heat, among flowers and grass, and he could almost deceive himself into thinking he only had his eyes closed as he languished and played chess against Emhyr. _Almost_.

In any case, the garden was where they spent all subsequent evenings, provided the weather was suitable.

By now, he and Emhyr had become acclimated to each other’s company and discarded the cool, stilted way they often spoke to each other in favour of something more casual. After a while, Geralt even started to look forward to their time together rather than regarding it as an unfortunate necessity to stave off boredom.

Ciri had yet to return. She would when she was ready, Geralt reassured himself, but he couldn't help being a little uneasy.

* * *

When Emhyr was occupied with running the empire, Geralt was often bored. The other residents of the palace generally ignored him, and even Mererid, who was _obligated_ to keep him company, would rarely indulge him in conversation. He didn't shy away from telling Emhyr how very bored he would get when Emhyr wasn't around, and this eventually led Emhyr to stopping him in a hallway and passing him a heavy tome of a book and a lengthy piece of parchment. Geralt was not amused. 

When he went to pass the items back with a dry reminder that he was _blind_ and could not indulge in reading, he noticed the parchment was covered in lines upon lines of neatly arranged bumps. That gave him pause. Before he could so much as raise an eyebrow in inquisition, however, Emhyr had jumped into an explanation.

“Braille,” he said, and Geralt hadn’t the faintest idea what the word meant. Thankfully, Emhry was quick to elaborate. “It is a form of reading and writing for the blind, produced by Louis Braille. A resident of Toussaint, so you may have heard of him already. This should give you something to do instead of whining incessantly.”

“Three times,” Geralt grumbled, but otherwise didn’t argue. It was a nice gesture. He didn’t want to seem ungrateful. “This a recent development?”

“There are a total of twelve books in Braille, two of which I am in possession of.”

“That’s a yes, I take it.”

Emhyr confirmed with a hum. “Should you have any trouble learning, assistance will be available-”

“Louise Braille works here?”

“No,” said Emhyr. “Toussaint, with efforts to accommodate the blind being made in the Empire. We provide him with funding.”

“How does that benefit the empire?”

Geralt could tell Emhyr was casting him a _look_.

“We are well beyond the days where the disabled were killed and displayed on hillsides, Geralt.”

“Didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Of course you did. However, should you need assistance, you only need call my chamberlain. He will point you in the right direction if the letters give you trouble.”

The letters were in Elder Speech, so Geralt expected he _would_ struggle. But enough to call upon Emhyr’s prickly chamberlain? Unlikely. Struggling through only meant the book would take longer to finish, anyway, and he didn’t exactly want to rush through when he still had weeks left to wait. He would take his time, enjoy the activity. He always had favoured language lessons while studying at Kaer Mohen (and consequently he was among the few proficient in dialects such as ‘mermaid’).  

He tucked the book and parchment up under an arm. “Thank you, Emhyr.”

Emhyr inhaled sharply, almost imperceptibly, and Geralt couldn't begin to fathom why. “I expect to hear no more complaints,” said Emhyr as he took his leave.

* * *

Late into his third week, after Geralt had worked his way through a fourth of the book, he started to notice Emhyr spending less time at his desk. Not by a great margin, but enough that it was noticeable. This might not have been of any interest to him, except Emhyr was going out of his way to spend that time with Geralt, and Geralt didn’t quite know what to make of that.

So, naturally, he asked. He wasn’t exactly shy about these things.

Emhyr responded casually, without so much as a pause. “I am surrounded daily by yes-men, many of whom lie through their teeth in hopes of pleasing me. You are a pleasant deviation.”

“My insolence pleases you, now?” asked Geralt. “Should have told me earlier so I could better indulge you.”

“Oh, there’s no need. You’re doing so right now.”

There was no bite in Emhyr’s voice. There might have even been a smile, though it was impossible for Geralt to tell.

* * *

Finally, after almost a month of waiting, Geralt was informed that Olgierd Von Everec had arrived at the palace. Ciri had not yet returned, but once he got his sight back – assuming he did – he could go looking for Ciri himself if necessary.

He was surprised to find Olgierd did not arrive alone. The first thing he heard upon entering the room Olgierd had been permitted to use for the duration of his stay was not Olgierd’s voice, but the shrill voices of several young children. They were arguing, yelling, carrying on, and only when Geralt entered the room did he hear Olgierd tell them to settle down. They did so immediately.

“Geralt,” Olgierd called before hurrying over to give his hand a squeeze. “You’d think by now little would surprise me, but I must say, it’s quite astonishing that I’ve ended up in the emperor’s palace at your request.”

“Did they happen to mention why I asked for you?”

“Not explicitly, but I can see by the state of your eyes what you have called me for. He always did have a twisted sense of humour.” Olgierd released his forearm. “But before we get into that, introductions are in order.”

The children clamoured up excitedly, coming to stand at Olgierd’s side and murmuring amongst each other the various things Olgierd had apparently told them about Geralt. Hearing them refer to him as a ‘hero’ and a ‘force against evil’ was almost enough to make him flustered.

“Seems you’ve taken well to parenthood,” said Geralt appraisingly.

“Yes, well… they’re not that much different from caring for the wild ones, really…” Olgierd cleared his throat, apparently somewhat flustered himself. “This is Jesse, Lillian, and Iris. Jesse and Lillian are ten, and Iris recently turned four, didn’t you?”

“Uh-huh!” cried the little girl enthusiastically.

“They were orphaned through the war. I took them in. Found Iris when she was just an infant.”

Iris nodded so vigorously that even Geralt could hear it. Her little pigtails were slapping her shoulders.

“The other two found me.”

“Found his cupboards, more like,” said Jesse mischievously. Lillian giggled.

“Mhm. Caught them stealing my food, so I decided, hell, why not give them a home, and so they’ve been living with me, oh… three or so years now. It’s a long story. I’m happy to tell you, if you have the time.”

“Daddy,” said Iris, tugging at Olgierd’s clothes. “There’s a fruit bowl! Can I have some?”

“But you haven’t been properly introduced, darling.”

“It’s alright,” said Geralt, who knew all too well how bored children could get when forced to listen to adults conversing. “We’ll get better acquainted later.”

“Very well,” said Olgierd, slapping his hands together. “Have some fruit, you lot. You can wander, but only within this room.”

“Can we play pirates on the bed?” asked Jesse.

“Go ahead.”

With his kids otherwise occupied, Olgierd caught Geralt by the elbow and guided him over to a quiet corner, out of ears reach of any potential eavesdroppers. He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur.

“Is the emperor aware of what we’re dealing with, or is there a lie I should be perpetuating? I’ve kept quiet so far, though those guards were prodding me for information the entire way here.”

“He’s aware.” Geralt tipped his head. “For the most part. There’s only so much I can tell him, considering I’m not exactly well informed myself.”

“Has O’Dimm threatened-?”

“Him? No. He’s doing me a favour.”

“Not for free, I imagine.”

“Not entirely,” said Geralt. “You need not do it for free, either.”

“After you risked your life for me?” Olgierd scoffed and shook his head. “Something it seems you are still suffering consequences for. I owe you a great deal, Geralt. Tell me what you need.”

“I need to summon O’Dimm.”

Olgierd was silent for a long moment, seeming to need to gather his wits. Though he was putting up a brave front, Geralt could smell the sweat beading to the surface of his skin. “I suspected it would be something of the sort,” he said, his voice calm, but unusually quiet. “There’s no guarantee it will work, unfortunately.”

“It will,” said Geralt, with a confidence he hoped would reassure Olgierd. “It’s what he wants.”

“What _exactly_ does he want from you?”

“A chance to beat me at a game.” Geralt folded his arms. “I’ll indulge him.”

“If you lose-?”

“I have no intention of losing, but if I do, don’t try anything. Get your children out. Look after them. Forget this happened.”

“I know what happens when that creature claims a soul, Geralt. It’s not easy knowledge to banish from one’s mind.” Olgierd’s voice was strained. “You have a plan?”

“Wouldn’t be going ahead with this if I didn’t.” Just in case, he wasn’t going to so much as hint to what this plan might be. When O’Dimm was around, the walls could have ears.

“Alright.” Olgierd exhaled heavily. “Alright, I assume you are going to perform the ritual, seeing as O’Dimm is unlikely to respond to me. I’ll set it up and tell you the incantation.”

“Beeswax candles. Chalk. Anything else I need to get?”

“I didn’t expect you to be knowledgeable in such things.”

“I read a book.” Geralt shrugged. “Will a sacrifice be necessary?”

“Not for this particular summoning, no. We’re not aiming to bind O’Dimm, and nor could we if we tried. If you are ready to do this, I can make preparations tonight. I only need candles, chalk, and quiet, solitary room.”

“You’ve had a long journey,” said Geralt. “We’ll do it tomorrow night. Rest, first. Enjoy the palace.”

“Perhaps I should,” said Olgierd, and it was only now that he allowed his exhaustion to be audible. “Travelling in a confined space with my children has been taxing. We could all use some rest.” He called his next words to his frolicking children. “We could use some rest, couldn’t we?”

“No!” the kids chorused from the bed, upon which they were playing pretend and eating fruit.

Olgierd chuckled. “They’ll change their tune soon. They’re just running on excitement right now.”

“After setting up, you should leave,” said Geralt. “Take the kids.”

“I appreciate the gesture, Geralt. I do, but I would rather stay and make sure the summoning works. I won’t be present for the summoning itself – you don’t need me potentially exacerbating things, but I would like to remain here until its done, just in case you need me to set things up again." Olgierd roped an arm around Geralt's shoulders and guided him toward the exit. “All that aside, how about I come by your quarters in an hour or so, once the children have fallen asleep? We’ll have a catch up and forget what awaits us tomorrow for a short while.”

“Sounds good," said Geralt, sliding nimbly out of his grip. He would be able to navigate his way back to his chambers from here. Their rooms weren't far apart. "I'll see you then, Olgierd.”

Geralt could hear Olgierd rounding up his children as he left he room. He thought again of Ciri and hoped he would be able to see her soon. Before Gaunter O’Dimm would have been ideal, but he suspected the length of her absence meant she had gone to talk to someone about Emhyr’s letter. That someone was most likely Yennefer, and if that was the case, she might not end up returning at all. Yennefer wasn’t exactly fond of Emhyr despite having played his court sorceress for a short while.

He returned to his own quarters to await Olgierd’s arrival. There was already ample wine in the room, some of which had come with the room, others that had been provided at Geralt's request, so he needn’t concern himself with selecting a fresh bottle. 

He occupied himself with the braille book while he waited for Olgierd. He had already finished it once, but as he was still learning braille, he thought it worth skimming through any passages he’d struggled with.

The moment he heard Olgierd’s footsteps, Geralt set out two goblets and a bottle of wine. He’d left the door open. Olgierd knocked regardless and didn’t enter until Geralt verbally indicated that he could.

Those kids certainly had had an impact on how he behaved.

“So,” said Geralt as he extended Olgierd his goblet of wine. “Tell me about those kids of yours.”

“Hope you’re ready for a spiel, Geralt,” said Olgierd.

A spiel it might have been, but Geralt hung onto Olgierd’s every word. It turned out leading the Wild Ones had somewhat prepared Olgierd for parenting, though he had to adjust himself to certain things and had decided to give up swearing upon having Lillian yell the word ‘fuck’ at him during an argument. He hadn’t said a single swear since then. He’d given up a lot of things for their sake, in fact, including a considerable amount of sleep so he could take them to their tutors house every morning. In a few years, Lillian and Jesse would be old enough to attend Oxenfurt Academy, and Olgierd was already buttering the school up by offering small donations to help with the recovery efforts; the school was still looking for new lecturers after Radovid had dragged them away from their positions and that required money. Fortunately, by the time Lillian and Jesse were old enough to attend, the school would be fully functional again. Geralt was glad to hear it. He had fond memories of Oxenfurt Academy and he liked to imagine Shani would return there to lecture one day.

They chatted well into the early morning hours. Not the smartest thing to do with what they would be doing tomorrow, but Geralt didn’t have anything else on the agenda, and neither did Olgierd and his children, so they would probably be able to get away with sleeping in a few hours.

He tossed and turned during the night, plagued by nightmares that he couldn’t remember come morning.

* * *

Emhyr permitted them to use an empty room in the lowest level of the palace. It was cold, dark, and smothered in dust, but it would suffice for their purposes. Olgierd hastily broomed down the middle of the room before dropping to his hunches to draw a pentagram on the tiles. It was hard, given how smooth they were, and he ended up grinding two pieces of chalk to nubs before he was satisfied with the result. Geralt was made to sit in the pentagram while Olgierd prepared the candles.

“Don’t want you knocking them over,” Olgired mumbled, though there was little danger of anything catching alight.

Unease started to gather beneath Geralt’s skin as he sat. His limbs were rigid, hands clenched in his lap.

He thought of Ciri, and thinking about Ciri led him to thinking about the possibility that he would never see her again, or hear her, or hold her. This had all occurred to him before, of course, but he had been so sure that he would win that such thoughts had produced little anxiety, and now he wasn’t so certain. His winning hinged a great deal on O’Dimm agreeing to certain rules, and if the man refused, well, he didn’t have a contingency plan in place, and nor could he make one with how unpredictable O’Dimm could be.

He took a deep breath to ease his anxiety. There was no point in fretting. He needed his wits about him if he was going to succeed.

“I require a word with the witcher.”

Emhyr’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Geralt lifted his head and listened to Olgierd’s receding footsteps, leaving him and Emhyr on their lonesome.

“Geralt,” said Emhyr, coming to stand by the pentagram.

“Emhyr,” said Geralt back, casting the approximate location of Emhyr’s face a curious look. “Any reason in particular you’re deigning me with your presence?”

“Should you need assistance in the form of men or my court sorceress,“ started Emhyr, but Geralt interrupted him.

“They’d be of no help. This isn’t a creature that can be physically harmed.”

“I see.” Another pause, longer this time. Geralt wished he could see just what expression Emhyr was wearing. “Then,” said the Emperor at last. “I am merely here to tell you I wish to see you at my quarters tonight.”

“There’s no guarantee I’ll-”

“That wasn’t a request.”

Geralt knitted his eyebrows. In some underhanded way, he was pretty sure Emhyr had just tried to reassure him. Surprisingly, it worked. He didn’t know what to say, bewildered as he was, so he merely nodded his thanks.

“Until tonight, witcher.” And Emhyr was gone, leaving him alone.

Olgierd only peeked in to light the candles before leaving. He would likely spend the rest of the evening in his quarters, watching vigilantly over his children. Geralt could imagine the anxiety he was feeling at them being in the vicinity of a creature like O’Dimm. 

Geralt spread his hands. Already he could feel power emanating through the pentagram, buzzing up his fingers and raising the hairs on his forearms.

“Oudoianu feus,” he murmured. The candles flickered and gave off a greater heat, sending sparks diving onto his skin and clothes. “Soba camisa iada,” he continued, drawing the arcane energy closer with his fists. “Soba camisa aberaases! Gaunter O’Dimm, Master Mirror, I summon thee!”

The energy raged and engulfed him. Even blind he could see the red that encased his body, that raced harmlessly through his circulatory system and lit up his heart.

The flames gradually died down. The room fell into silence.

“O’Dimm?”

Nothing.

Perhaps the words had been wrong. Perhaps he should have specified his reason for calling O’Dimm.

Geralt checked that each candle was still lit before trying again. “Oudoianus feus-“

“Now, now, Geralt. Have some patience.”

Geralt felt equal parts relief and anger upon hearing Gaunter’s voice. It had worked.

“I see you persevered despite your lack of sight,” said the man. “Impressive.”

“How about giving it back as a reward for my perseverance.”

“You _asked_ me to take it, Geralt. I generally do not take back wishes.”

“It was a trick. You know it was.”

Gaunter’s footsteps were so soft as to barely be perceptible. He knew the man was circling him like a vulture.

“My mind may be changed if you decide to agree to a rematch.”

“Figured as much,” said Geralt. “I have conditions.”

O’Dimm chuckled. “Oh? Go on. I love it when humans take the initiative.”

Geralt went over his requirements one last time before speaking them. He wanted to be sure there were no loopholes O’Dimm could take advantage of. “First, I want my sight back before we start, and I want to keep it. No taking it regardless of if I win or lose.”

“That’s fine by me. Hell, why don’t I fix that now, as a show of good faith.”

A snap of his fingers and Geralt found himself staring down at tiles and flickering candles, his retinas throbbing as they struggled to adjust to the onslaught of light, dim though it was. He shakily looked down at his knees, and hands, and chest, marvelling at the sight of them, before finally raising his gaze to O’Dimm.

The man smiled down at him, all teeth. His gums were black. His grey skin, veiny and gaunt, was seeping off of him in great wisps in some areas and crumbling in others. It was clearly not a form easily manifested in this realm, but for him, O’Dimm was making an effort.

“Go on,” said O’Dimm, and as he spoke, streaks of black escaped from between his lips and drifted lazily into the air.

Geralt didn’t look away. He didn't dare to. “Second requirement, if I win, you leave me be.”

“Fine, fine,” said O’Dimm dismissively. His bright yellow eyes bore into Geralt. They weren't unlike his own, slitted and luminous as they were, but the way the iris' undulated and flickered prompted nausea and unease in Geralt. There was something wrong with them, something arcane and beyond human comprehension. “Anything else?" asked O'Dimm with a smile. "Because I am so looking forward to starting.”

“Yes,” said Geralt, pushing up off the floor to stand before O’Dimm. “I choose the game.”

O’Dimm frowned. “I can allow two out of three of those requirements.”

“ _You_ want to choose the game, I’m guessing?”

“Of course I do, Geralt. You humans are terribly unimaginative when it comes to these things.”

“Sounds more like you’re worried I’ll win to me.” Geralt folded his arms. “You have that little faith in your abilities?”

“Don’t insult me, Geralt,” said O’Dimm quietly, cutting into the pentagram to enter Geralt’s personal space, his boots wiping away the lines that Olgierd had so carefully drawn. They did absolutely nothing to hinder him. “It’s very unwise, as I’m sure you know.”

Geralt maintained his position. He wasn’t about to let O’Dimm intimidate him. “Then let me choose the game.”

O’Dimm’s gaze narrowed. The yellow of his eyes flared dangerously and only simmered down when Geralt betrayed his trepidation by shrinking back, his hand twitching toward a sword he didn't have. “Fine,” said O'Dimm. “There’s no game you could conceive of that I could lose. Humans are limited in that regard.” He tapped his fingers under Geralt’s chin, his nails scraping Geralt’s throat. His touch stung like heated metal. “And if you lose, you will have to play _my_ game. Or games, rather. You will do whatever I wish of you, for as long as I wish. That will be my reward.”

Geralt swallowed and wetted his lips. An eternity of servitude under Gaunter O’Dimm. It was hard to imagine a worse fate. Nonetheless, he had little choice but to play along at this point. “Fine.”

“Glad we’re in agreement.” O’Dimm retreated a step, permitting Geralt some personal space. “Now, let’s hear your game.”

“It’s a riddle. You get three guesses.”

“A riddle.” O’Dimm’s voice was impeccably dry. “Is it to be a simple, verbal riddle?"

"Yes."

"Oh, Geralt. While I do enjoy a good riddle, you couldn’t have been more unimaginative if you’d tried." O'Dimm sighed. "Go on, I suppose. What’s your riddle?”

“I'm as light as a feather, but even a troll can't hold me for long.”

O’Dimm burst into easy laughter. From anyone else, it would have been a pleasant, companionable sound. “Geralt, Geralt, Geralt! That is a _terrible_ riddle. There’s no single answer. I’m afraid you’ll have to try again.”

“The only rules of my game were that you would get three guesses," said Geralt, folding his arms. "So make your guess, O'Dimm."

The laughter abruptly stopped. O’Dimm’s mouth thinned. “You could lie and say I got it wrong regardless of how I answer.”

“That's just a risk you'll have to take. You have, after all, already agreed to my terms.”

Not only had O’Dimm ceased laughing, but now he was glowering at Geralt, his eyes yellow slits and his mouth pulled into a deep frown.

“That is cheating, Geralt. Unacceptable.” Within a blink of an eye, he was so close that their chests were practically touching. His body radiated an impossible heat. “If you can’t come up with a proper game, we’ll play one of _mine_.”

“I cheated no more than you did,” said Geralt, fighting back the urge to retreat. “You forced me into this.”

“You made a wish that I simply fulfilled. It is no fault of mine that you weren’t more careful.”

“Cut the shit, O’Dimm.” Geralt caught him by the front of his hood and Gaunter made no attempt to dislodge him. He moved to throw O'Dimm back and out of his personal space. “You played a trick, I played one back. You lost, _again_.”

No retort was offered this time. Gaunter instead raised a hand to his hair and coiled his fingers into it before Geralt could part their bodies.

"Oh, but I have not yet finished playing your game," said O'Dimm coolly. "Three guesses, wasn't it? We'll have an interlude first, during which you can reconsider your riddle."

A thin rivulet of blood slid down Geralt’s head from where O’Dimm’s nails were digging into his scalp. There was a terrifying, cold anger in the man’s expression as he leaned in close and murmured an unfamiliar language under his breath. Geralt didn’t quite know what he was trying to do until pain erupted in his skull. Pain, he could generally deal with, but this – this was beyond anything he had ever experienced, and the intensity of it wrenched his jaw open and tore a bellowing scream out of his lungs that echoed down the castle halls.

He screamed, and he screamed, and he screamed, and he could not perceive anything beyond the terrible pain in his head. It burned away his synapses and rendered him unable to feel, think, see, hear. It was everything. The pain was everything and he would have done anything, given O’Dimm anything to make it stop.

An ache blossomed in his back. He only realised several seconds after the fact that he’d been flung into a wall. The pain in his head was still there, but a distant, dull throb instead of a burn, and through his wavering vision he could see the outline of Ciri, bright in the dark of the room. He wanted to call her name, but he’d screamed his throat raw. There was blood in his mouth; had he bitten his tongue?

He watched Ciri grab a handful of O’Dimm and both of them promptly disappeared in a flash of green.

Exhaustion overwhelmed Geralt. He closed his eyes and fell into the black.

* * *

He awoke slowly, groggily, shaking his head and twisting his fingers into the bed sheets. It took a him a good moment after peeling open his eyes to register that last night had not just been a terrible dream, and the second he remembered Ciri – _Ciri had been with O’Dimm_ – he shot out of bed so fast that he would have gone tumbling out if not for the strong hands that caught him by the shoulders and eased him back to the mattress.

“Easy, Geralt,” murmured Olgierd, and Geralt then realised that Oligierd was murmuring for Ciri’s benefit, who was fast asleep beside him. He rolled over to tuck some hair behind Ciri’s ear.

“What happened?” he asked, his voice hoarse. It hurt when he swallowed and his tongue was heavy and swollen in his mouth. He vaguely remembered biting down on it.

“According to your daughter, she had a nightmare and rushed in just in time to take O’Dimm somewhere.” Oligied flapped a hand. It was clear he hadn’t the faintest idea about Ciri’s abilities. “It was all rather odd to me, but apparently O’Dimm won’t be getting back from there for a very, very long time, and that’s the important part.”

Geralt nodded and wiped a palm over his eyes, rubbing away the lingering drowsiness. “How long have I been out?”

“Two days,” said Olgierd. “A sorceress was brought in. You had some serious head trauma, which isn’t exactly abnormal after dealing with O’Dimm.”

“Certainty feels like it,” said Geralt, grimacing. The throbbing remnants of a headache was evidence of that. “The sorceress didn’t happen to have black hair and violet eyes, did she?”

“Black hair, yes, but I didn’t see their eyes. They wore a blindfold of sorts.”

Ah, _Philippa_. Not who Geralt would have chosen for a healer, but she seemed to have done a passable job. He was weak, tired, but his pain was minimal. “Definitely not who I’m thinking of," he murmured. 

"I’ve a curiosity of my own, if you don’t mind me asking,” said Olgierd.

Geralt’s eyelids drooped as he peered up at Olgierd. For someone who had been sleeping for two days, he didn't feel very refreshed. “What?”

“You and the emperor,” began Olgierd with some hesitation. “There isn’t something between you, is there?”

“Between us?”

“Are you…” Olgierd made a gesture with his hand that meant exactly nothing to Geralt. “A courtesan of his, perhaps? No judgement on my part, of course. I’d be quite impressed, in fact.”

That suggestion startled Geralt out of his languor. He cast Olgierd a bewildered look.  “Why would you think that?”

“Well, one tends to wonder when it’s the emperor himself who carries you out the basement and worries over you for three hours.” Olgierd dropped down to Geralt’s level, sitting on his hunches beside the bed. “I gather that my assumption is wrong.”

“It was probably a show for Ciri,” he said, struggling to make sense of Emhyr’s actions. Three hours... that was excessive, even for a show to persuade Ciri he was trustworthy. “Entirely for her benefit," he added, with less certainty. "We aren’t even _friends_.”

“Might want to tell the emperor that too,” said Olgierd, chuckling. “Seems he’s not as aware of that as you are.”

Geralt ran a hand up into his hair, dropping back to the pillows. “Later. I need to piss, bathe, and eat, in that order.”

“Need a hand? I could carry you.”

“Think I’d rather piss the bed than let you carry me to the bathroom.”

Olgierd laughed. “Fine, but do try not to piss the bed. You’ll wake your daughter and I don’t think she’ll be as forgiving as I.”

“Imagine you get used to such messes, with three kids.”

“Unfortunately," said Olgierd, and while he didn't move to lift Geralt out of bed, he did offer a hand so Geralt wouldn't have to struggle his way to his feet. Once upright, Geralt wobbled precariously and braced himself against the bedside table.

"Will you be alright from here?" asked Olgierd uncertainly. 

"Just fine." He made a shooing gesture. "Go. I'm sure your children are getting up to mischief without you."

"Very well, but I'll be back later to make sure you haven't fallen."

"I won't have."

"We'll see," said Olgierd, watching Geralt over his shoulder as he vacated the room.

Geralt's legs shook all the way to the lavatory and it was something of a miracle that he managed to piss without his knees buckling beneath him. It was even more impressive that he got himself over to the baths and gave himself a clean without incident, though he took care not to enter the deeper depths of the water while as fatigued as he was. It would be a shame to drown after managing to outwit one of the most powerful beings in existence for a second time.

Emhyr entered the bathing quarters while he was drying off. His chamberlain was at his heels, carrying a bundle of clothes. When the chamberlain offered to help him dress, Geralt refused, pulling on the clothes himself, though with some difficulty. Emhyr dismissed the chamberlain with a gesture once Geralt indicated he could manage by himself.

“You are looking well, witcher.”

“I’m coping,” said Geralt, adjusting the collar of his shirt until he was comfortable.

“Good.” Emhyr folded his hands behind his back. “A carriage is being prepared for your companion and his children. They will be escorted safely back to Oxenfurt when they are ready.”

“Thank you,” said Geralt, pushing his sodden hair out of his face and giving it a squeeze. Water splashed to the tiles.

“I imagine, when you leave, you will not require a carriage.”

“That's right.” He released his hair and glanced at Emhyr. “Ciri's asleep in my room. Guessing you've had the opportunity to speak to her.”

“Yes, we have spoken.”

“About?”

“You.” Emhyr stepped closer, looking down at Geralt over his hooked nose. “She has agreed to give me a fraction of her time. I believe it is only my assistance in your case that convinced her.”

Geralt frowned. “You’ll be seeing her, then?”

“Yes. For short periods, which is more than I assumed I would receive.”

Bitterness welled up in Geralt, and it was ridiculous, because he’d always known he was a means to an end to Emhyr and he never should have deluded himself otherwise. But the bitterness welled up anyway, even as Geralt tried to smother it with reason.

“She’s liable to drop you if she finds out.” He couldn’t suppress the sharp note in his voice.

Emhyr’s gaze narrowed, examining Geralt more so than glaring at him. “And what exactly is she supposed to be finding out?”

“You used me to get to her,” he answered simply, frustrated at his failure to affect a flippant tone. He turned away from Emhyr’s rapt gaze. “Always knew I was here for that purpose, but damn, if you didn’t almost convince me too.”

Emhyr regarded him coolly. “You are a fool, witcher.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” said Geralt.

He moved to pass the emperor. Emhyr prevented him from leaving by planting a hand on his shoulder. If not for his fatigue, he would have shoved Emhyr away, but as it was, he only managed a feeble push before he was too tired to continue.

“If you’re worried I’ll tell Ciri,” he began, and Emhyr chose a rather unconventional tactic to shut him up: he hooked a hand around the nape of his neck and drew him in for a kiss. It was chaste, Emhyr’s lips briefly fitting over his, but it was a kiss all the same, and Emhyr pressed another one to the corner of his mouth before withdrawing.

His lips had been soft and warm. Those weren’t words he’d ever thought he would associate with the man.

“As I said, witcher,” muttered Emhyr, fingers stroking up into his wet hair. “You are a fool.”

Geralt was left in a state of stupefaction. More startling than the fact Emhyr had just kissed him was the fact Geralt hadn’t minded at all. He should have, given their history, and particularly Emhyr’s history with Ciri… but he didn’t. After all that had happened between them, how hard Emhyr was trying to change, he was finding it impossible to keep a hold of his grudge.

“Guess I am,” he choked out and proceeded to use what little strength that remained in him to draw Emhyr into another, deeper kiss. It didn’t last long before Emhyr’s mouth had latched onto his neck, kissing and sucking its way down the pale column of his throat.

Emhyr’s arm coiled over the small of Geralt’s back and his hand slid boldly beneath the waistband of Geralt’s trousers, gliding over the generous slope of his buttocks, his rings warm against Geralt’s skin. His other hand ventured under the loose fabric of Geralt’s shirt and his thumb caught on a soft nipple.

“You reciprocate my interest, I take it?” Emhyr rumbled against him.

“Returning the kiss wasn’t indication enough?” he breathed. “Need me to suck your cock first?”

“I wouldn’t be opposed.”

Who knew the Emperor had a sense of humour.

“Later,” he murmured. He’d end up doing a mediocre job if he tried right now. He needed to get something in him first, something that wasn’t a cock. “Need to eat,” he added breathlessly, dizzied by the journey of Emhry’s hand in his trousers. It was tantalisingly close to touching something private.

Emhyr peppered a few kisses on his neck and then released him. “I’ll have the kitchens prepare you a meal. You may sit in my quarters, in the meantime.”

Geralt nodded. Though he was perfectly capable of walking, Emhyr helped him across the room, acting as a crutch. “It will give us a moment to talk,” said Emhyr, his palm moving to Geralt’s shoulders to turn him into the hallway. “We have much to discuss.”

Geralt suspected, even after putting everything on the table and establishing their intentions and desires, they would still be stumbling through the next few weeks, and perhaps even months. Any sort of relationship with Emhyr wasn’t going to be easy to navigate, especially with Ciri only tentatively incorporating Emhyr into her life. But when had Geralt ever chosen the easy option?

He would see this through to the end, whatever that may be.


End file.
